


Sleeping At Last

by Taedae



Series: Otayuri Week 2020 [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Angst, Character Deaths, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Fight Scenes, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, People get shot, Revenge Plot, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25525804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taedae/pseuds/Taedae
Summary: When yet another heist is thwarted, their window of opportunity continues to shrink. Exhausted and stretched too thin, Yuri Plisetsky balances on a knife's edge to maintain his daily routine while combating the crushing realities of life—and going head-to-head with his enemies. But with Yuri and Chris by his side, Yura is sure they have it all figured out now, sure they know their rivals well enough to finally pull it off, only to discover nothing is as it seems.Time is a precious resource, but it becomes even more valuable when racing against the clock. And sometimes, having ice in your veins and a fire in your heart just isn't enough.--TLDR: Thieves, fight scenes, mysteries, and plenty of angst. Someone is screwing Yura over, but it might not be his rivals. Someone gets shot. Someone knows more than they are telling ... Oh, and an Otayuri sex scene. There's that too 😉
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Series: Otayuri Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985047
Comments: 73
Kudos: 35
Collections: Otayuri Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venom_for_free](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venom_for_free/gifts).



> **Beta Reader:** [KailynMei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KailynMei/)
> 
> This is a birthday gift for the absolutely _amazing_ Venom! My darling, I know your birthday is still a few weeks off, but I decided it wasn't enough to just post a single, decent length, multipart story on your special day. You deserve so much more, which is why I will be showering you with love and drama and angst and mystery (and eventually _smut_ —because you know I had to 😏) in a new part every week starting today, with the final part going live the last week of August!
> 
> I love you so very much! More than a single story can express. But I tried 💕 Thank you for sharing your life and passions with me. I hope you will enjoy this emotional, wild adventure!

Getting nailed in the balls hurt like a bitch. Which was precisely why Yura's thigh shot up between his opponent's legs. Valerian cried out and stumbled back, giving Yura enough time to retrieve his daggers. The bastard knocked them from Yura's hands when their brawl began, and they slid a few feet along the dimly lit hall. But at least he didn't have to search blindly for them. The moonlight streaming through the towering, uncovered windows bathed them in a silver glow, and the blades glinted, beckoning him.

That shouldn't have happened. If Yura hadn't been distracted, there was no way in hell Valerian could have disarmed him.

God, Yura hated him. He hated the man's 'perfect' blond hair and his custom-tailored suits. Who the fuck went on a heist in a three-piece, pinstriped Dolce & Gabbana, anyway? Apparently, this prick did. Every. Fucking. Time. And it was always a different one, too. Although, Yura swelled with pride knowing Valerian's suits kept getting replaced because of his own handiwork. He could always rely on his trusty twin daggers to bring the kiss of death to the ridiculously overpriced scraps. It's just too bad Valerian was so agile, or a steel-laced caress to his flesh would be just as kismet.

At least Yura had the decency to dress like a _real_ thief. As if he would risk getting a mugshot in anything less than a skin-tight black bodysuit. Actually, he wanted leopard print, but Yuri vetoed it. _'Prints will stand out too much. Black makes it easier to hide'_ , blah, blah, blah. And then Chris had to go and back Yuri up, the traitor.

“Oh, fuck off, Cupid!”

The only thing Yura despised more than Valerian, was Chris singing over the headset. Actually, no. Scratch that. There was one thing he hated even more than Chris' disturbingly in-tune rendition of “How Does A Moment Last Forever”. As if it wasn't bad enough that their exceptionally boring attire wasn't a far step from something a superhero would wear in the early days of their crime-fighting career, they also had God-awful nicknames. Which Yura had _again_ been outvoted on. Of course, he understood the reasons for using an alias. He wasn't stupid. Even Valerian was somehow smart enough to avoid using his real name—unless that was the prick's real name, and in that case, he had bigger issues than just stupidity. But of all the fucking things Chris could have chosen for himself, he went with _that?!_

Over a year of working together, and bile still invaded his mouth every time Yura said it.

Blades in hand, Yura whirled around, but Valerian was right behind him, and he was thrown back against the wall. The picture frame above trembled, and his daggers clattered to the floor.

_“Oh, come now, darling. It's a beautiful night, practically begging to be serena—”_

“You'll be serenading … my damn fists … if you don't—fuck!—Knock it off!”

Chris snorted. And Valerian wasn't helping, either. “Voices … in your head … again, kitten?”

Blow for blow, they blocked and parried each other's strikes. “Don't ... fucking … call me that!” Yura tried to get Valerian in the balls again, but apparently, an old dog _could_ be taught new tricks. He jumped back when Yura's leg twitched.

_“He's right, Cupid. Stop distracting us.”_

Fucking finally! When was Yuri going to back him up? When Chris got them both killed because he was too dramatic to shut the fuck up? He and Valerian had that in common. Maybe they should be friends so they could both leave Yura the fuck alone.

He didn't actually mean that. Chris had done a lot to help the Yuris in the last year, something they were both grateful for, even if Yura refused to admit it. But now that their heists had been thwarted for the third time in a row by the pompous James Bond wannabe, Yura's already thin patience was primed to snap.

_“Keep him busy, Tiger. I'm almost there.”_

“What … the fuck … do you think … I've been doing … this whole … fucking time?!” Yura didn't take Valerian on for kicks, despite rather enjoying when his foot collided with any part of the asshole's body. But if Yura had things his way, he would slip in and out, acquiring their mark without fighting. He could fight. Of course he could. Yura had trained in a variety of dance and martial arts for years. But combat was a waste of time, and time was a precious resource.

_“Be careful,”_ Chris said. _“We still don't know where—”_

The _“oof”_ that came through the headset had Yura baring his teeth at Valerian like a rabid animal. Well, now they knew where Auric was. The son of a bitch was always sneaking up on them. Unlike flashy-pants Valerian and his gold-plated pistol, Auric was a master of the shadows. He was quick, quiet, and stayed out of the fray without a reason to engage. And Yuri had apparently walked right into his trap.

Valerian grinned as they grappled and tumbled. Yura bristled. He wanted to wipe the smug look of the prick's face, preferably by carving it out of his thick skull, but his daggers were out of reach. He hissed as his head slammed against the tiled floor, his vision blurring, and Yura tried to convince himself it was from the impact instead of the dampness coating his eyes. Anger was easier. Rage sustained him. He didn't have time to let the reality of another failed heist sink in.

Panted breaths and scuffling through the headset proved Yuri wasn't much better off.

Arms pinned, waist straddled, Yura struggled. He tried to use Valerian's weight against him, tried to throw him off, but they'd been down this road too many times. He was at Valerian's mercy.

A gunshot echoing through the hall left his ears ringing, and Yura closed his eyes, turning his head away from the dust littering down from the wall.

“Not today, Valerian!” Bless Chris. Yura would never say that out loud, but Chris had saved his ass more times than he wanted to count. He still did, of course. He had to. Like hell Yuri Plisetsky would let himself be indebted to anyone for longer than necessary, even his own companions. The weight vanished, his arms were freed. Yura opened his eyes and tried to follow the footsteps dashing down the hall, but Valerian was already darting around the corner. “Are you alright?” Chris rushed forward and hovered over him like a worried parent when their child fell on the playground. And for a moment, Yura just stared after Valerian.

Then he glared at Chris. “No!”

“Are you hurt? Where are you hu—”

“No, you moron! Why didn't you shoot him?!”

Chris sat back on his heels and rolled his eyes. “We're thieves, not murderers.”

“His back was exposed!”

“I'm not a backstabber.”

“Well, fuck you!” Yura scrambled to his feet, ignoring Chris' offered hand. His head throbbed, and when he brushed his fingertips over where it kissed the floor, they came away damp, a crimson hue shimmering in the moonlight. _Damn it._ His shampoo bottle would be begging for mercy.

“You _are_ hurt.”

“No, really?” Yura snapped, but it was nothing compared to the growl he unleashed when Chris stepped closer. “Fuck off!”

“Let me check it!”

_“Ah … guys,”_ Yuri's shaky voice cut in. _“Bad news ...”_

* * *

Yura stormed out of his room, slamming his backpack on the table, and Yuri almost dropped the frying pan. Not that it would have mattered to Yura if the eggs spilled. He wasn't interested in the little 'family' meal sizzling on the stove. He ignored Yuri's stare and stomped to the cupboard, grabbing an energy bar.

“I'm almost done.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yura—”

“Don't!” he hissed as he grabbed the strap of his bag and tossed it over his shoulder. “I have practice.”

“But you'll miss breakfast.”

Instead of answering, Yura strode toward the door, pushing over a vase along the way. It shattered, flowers and glass shards scattering across the floor, but he didn't look back. He yanked his sneakers on and threw the door open, leaving the mess to Yuri. On his way down the stairwell, he crossed paths with Chris, but when he opened his mouth to greet him, Yura growled and charged past.

Chris didn't live with them, though he might as well with how often he visited. He had his own key and fell somewhere between the friend that never really left and the mother hen. He ate their food and lounged on their couch, but at least he pitched in for groceries and helped clean the apartment. Though, unfortunately, he also helped Yuri scold Yura when he stepped out of line.

He would probably get an earful about that vase later.

Yura wasn't even sure why Chris still had his own place. Why pay rent elsewhere when he barely went home for more than a few hours sleep? If he wasn't working or hooking up with some dude of the hour, Chris would be at their place instead, reading or poring over floor plans in preparation for their next heist. Granted, if he didn't pull his weight when it came to their missions, Yura would be tempted to ensure Chris became intimately familiar with his daggers. His companions may serve as some kind of surrogate parents against his will, but Yura was the one in charge once the sun went down.

Although, he was starting to question if their efforts were a waste of time.

Another failed heist. Another dance practice to attend while running on barely two hours sleep. Exhaustion had become Yura's constant companion, more loyal than even Yuri and Chris. Its fangs scraped against his senses through every waking moment, and the only way to tame the beast was to unleash another, more dominant one; rage. But it wasn't actually Yuri or Chris he was upset with. It was Valerian. And Auric. And their mysterious navigator.

… And himself.

Yura stepped onto the bus, clinging to his emotional upheaval as he took in the faces of the other patrons onboard. He didn't naturally have a resting bitch face—an unfortunate oversight by mother nature—so far too many people were prone to trying to make small talk. He supposed they thought he was 'cute'. But not today. Nor over the last few weeks. His blood boiled around the clock, fury practically oozing from every pore. But Yura embraced it. Wielding his anger like a sword and shield repelled anyone trying to worm their way into his existence.

And kept the ever-resilient claws of darkness from plunging deep and dragging him under.

Between his sharp glare and the chaotic beats blaring through his headphones, no one bothered him for the duration of the trip. A lot of people used music to find the eye of a storm, the secret pocket of peace hidden within. But he used music to stand _within_ the storm, braving the harsh winds and debris, strong-backed and feet rooted.

Yura was already inside the studio and changed, stuffing his travel clothes into his locker when someone tugged on one of his earbuds.

There was always one dumb animal who couldn't seem to understand it was staring danger in the face.

“Yuri!”

“Fuck off, Jean.”

“Tsk, tsk, princess. Language.”

“Fine. _Va te faire foutre._ ”

Jean stared. “That's … not what I meant.”

Yura rolled his eyes. That was really the only French he knew, but damn, he glad to have it in his arsenal. It was Yura's mission in life to learn how to tell someone to 'fuck off' in every language possible, and then have it all carved onto his tombstone.

“Gee, really? Thanks. I never would have figured that out on my own.” _Dumbass._ Yura slammed his locker shut and pushed past Jean, ballet slippers in hand. If he were a nicer person, he'd tell Jean to 'hurry up' so his classmate would avoid getting the figurative—and semi-literal—shit beat out of him by Lilia. But no one ever accused Yuri Plisetsky of caring about anyone but himself.

* * *

The warm water running down his back was simultaneously a soothing reward for his impassioned performance and a relentless punishment for his foolishness. Lilia was not a woman to mess with, especially when it came to dance. She took the art seriously and expected her students to do the same. It was an attitude that earned Yura's silent respect and made her the one person Yura's didn't dare challenge.

Because challenging Lilia Baranovskaya meant going home in so much pain, you'd feel _organs_ you didn't know existed.

Yura hissed and sighed in an endless cycle as he carefully shifted in the stream. Palms pressed flat against the tiled wall, he leaned into whatever strength remained in his arms, but it didn't matter. A moment later, he was on his knees, his thighs trembling uncontrollably. Fuck. He shouldn't have pushed himself so hard, but what other choice did he have? Technically, he could have stayed home. He could have skipped practice to sleep or to join his friends for a proper meal, but then he would have been forced to _talk._

Bile pooled in his throat.

Talking was the bane of his carefully crafted routine. And Yuri and Chris fucking knew that! They knew if he didn't rage and scream and break things, he would crash and crumble and sob until he choked up a lung. They knew if he didn't desperately cling to his anger, if he didn't pour his every breath, his blood, sweat, and tears into every second of every day, everything would fall apart. And then none of this would matter. It would all be for nothing.

They knew … but they would still make him talk.

Yura's thighs gave out. His ass hit the floor.

The water beat against his sore muscles and sweat-coated skin, but a part of him embraced the pain. Every second of white-hot lightning coursing through him was a sign he was still alive, that there was still a chance—however slim that chance was.

He was being selfish. This single moment of weakness chiseled away at his most valuable resource, but this was his one place of true solitude. If any of his classmates saw him sitting in the shower, they wouldn't pester him like his self-proclaimed 'parents' would. Even Jean, the nosiest person in the program, would shrug it off as nothing more than dancer's fatigue. No one would question why Yuri Plisetsky was so exhausted. He was constantly top of the class, always pushing himself to his limits, and then smashing past them. It was high praise and even greater stupidity when Lilia couldn't scold a dancer for not trying hard enough.

And no one would ever see the tears that washed down the drain.

* * *

The wrappings crinkled as Yura cradled the bundle of flowers against his chest. One arm held them secure, his other hand darting into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. But a quick scan through the bills and coins tucked in the compartments made his stomach drop.

There wasn't enough.

He wasn't short by much, but he couldn't cover the cost of a bouquet that size. Heat tingled along his cheeks, and his mouth went dry. His hands shook as he held the flowers out between himself and the florist, and mumbled, “Could you ...”

“Is there a problem?” She frowned and tilted her head. “They're the same as you always ask for, aren't they?”

“Yes, but ...” Yura's gut twisted, and he clenched his jaw, his gaze darting to the floor, “I need a smaller bouquet this time.”

The silence was thick, only disturbed by the sharp _tick, tick, tick_ of the analog clock on the wall. Each passing second was like a stab to the heart. Yura just barely avoided flinching, but he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes, to see the judgment—

The flowers were gently pushed back into his arms. “Keep them.”

Yura's head shot up. “What?”

“Keep them,” she repeated, a soft smile gracing her lips. “You're here every week, anyway, always getting the same eight-inch bouquet. Whoever they are for must be very special to you.”

His throat constricted, but he still choked out, “Yes.”

“Well then,” the florist pressed the flowers even closer, “they're on me this time.”

Yura stared, numb and immobilized. He didn't accept pity or charity. He was raised differently. The Plisetsky family _earned_ every opportunity granted to them, worked hard for everything they owned and accomplished. When Yura wanted to dance, his grandfather did everything possible to ensure he could do precisely that, slaving away at his job to scrape together the money needed to afford Yura's lessons. And year after painstaking year, Yura pored over his studies until his brain was mush and pushed his body to the brink to earn a scholarship into the university's dance program. If he could do that, he could damn well pay for some fucking flowers!

But … he couldn't. Not this time.

His eyes stung as tears welled along his lashes, and before his pride got the better of him, Yura swallowed and murmured, “thank you”, before dashing out of the shop, the bright orange tiger lilies clutched against his chest.

A few blocks away, Yura stopped and hastily wiped the moisture from his eyes on the back of his sleeve. Hoodies were good for that. He swore that's what they were made for, to hide the evidence of the crushing realities of life. They weren't for keeping warm. That's what _sweaters_ were for.

Besides, hoodies were cool.

Flowers in hand, Yura steeled himself, locking his emotions away like a caged animal. He was almost there, and he already wasted enough time blubbering at the studio. One foot in front of the other, Yura's legs carried him toward his destination entirely on autopilot while his mind worked on fortifying the cracks in his carefully crafted mask.

The door slid open automatically, and Yura's strode through the all too familiar halls, his sneakers occasionally squeaking as they met the floor. The air was oddly still, and yet, buzzed as though it were filled with microscopic bugs only the ear could detect. Scattered, soft conversations drifted out from some of the rooms, and a distant, somewhat muffled voice through a speaker echoed behind him.

Two lefts, a right, and straight down to the end of the hall. The path was permanently burned into his memory.

His shadow loomed over the door, and Yura grabbed the handle, stepping into the room without pause. He didn't need to knock, didn't need to ask for permission to enter. His arrival was known, planned for, looked forward to—every Tuesday afternoon.

Yura forced a dead smile onto his face. He couldn't _really_ smile. There was no reason to. Nothing about this was right or acceptable. The universe was fucking with him, with them, and cackling at their suffering. Why else would they be in this situation? The Gods, karma, whatever you wanted to call it, it could all go to hell. But Yura still smiled because ... this man was worth it.

“Hey, grandpa.” Yura stepped further into the room and leaned over Nikolai's hospital bed to give him a hug. “I missed you.”


	2. Chapter 2

“It's good to see you, Yurochka. How was practice?” Nikolai's smile was like adding more wood to a fire on a cold autumn's night. It fueled Yura, keeping the sparks alive. It reminded him of why he needed to keep fighting, keep pushing, keep getting out of bed every morning, even when he'd rather rot under a mountain of blankets.

“It was good.” That wasn't technically a lie. Practice had gone well, but it always did. Yura damn near killed himself every day to ensure it. “I mean, it was a lot. But ... you know how Lilia is.”

Nikolai hummed in agreement, and Yura crossed to the table by the window. Last week's lilies had gone limp, and he quickly yanked them out of the vase, tossing them in the garbage and putting the fresh bouquet in their place. He couldn't bear the wilted flowers. They were a gut-wrenching reflection of the man in the room, so vibrant and beautiful, yet succumbing to the soul-sucking disease called _life._

Because that's what life was. Yura used to think otherwise, but the truth had been unmasked the moment Nikolai fell ill. Death never failed, never sprung up on people. Not really. It was the one permanent inevitability. Everything died eventually, and everyone knew that. It was _life_ that gave up on people, that decayed, that pulled the rug out from under you. People spent their whole existence fighting it, fighting _for_ it, trying to keep life close, only for it to leave in the end, ripping everything away. And the only thing that remained, that was ever-welcoming, always ready to catch them, to embrace them, to tell them everything was okay … was death.

And yet, Yura was one of the morons still fighting. Not for himself, but for Nikolai. His grandfather had been his rock since the day he was born. He'd taken Yura in when his parents died, clothed and fed and raised him, put him through school, attended every recital they could financially get away with, and provided for all their needs and Yura's many selfish desires. If anyone deserved to beat life into submission and reign supreme, it was Nikolai Plisetsky.

“You don't have to do that, Yuri.”

“Yes, I do. The other ones looked like trash.”

“That's not what I—”

“Did you finish the book?” Yura's fingers mindlessly fiddled with the new bouquet, his neck tingling from the gaze undoubtedly locked onto him. Nikolai knew that Yura was doing, but they didn't need to discuss it. It was better if they didn't. The last time his grandfather tried to talk about his condition, Yura stormed out. They don't fight, but they did that day, and it still left a bitterness in Yura's mouth.

“Yes, I did.” There was a smile in Nikolai's voice. A peace offering.

They wouldn't fight again. Not now, not ever.

Yura returned to his grandfather's bedside, a smile tugging at his lips, too. The longer he was in Nikolai's presence, the more his muscles relaxed, his emotions settled. This man was the salve to his burns, the antidote for the poison coursing through his veins. They were falling into their own little world again, as though they were back home, in the living room, discussing the stupidity of the protagonist in a science-fiction novel over a cup of tea.

Yura despised sci-fi, but that was a secret he would carry to his grave.

“—Yeah, but then he made their eyes bleed somehow? Like, what even was that?”

“Well, he apparently had the powers of a God by then.”

“More like the powers of plot convenience! I wanted my own eyes to bleed at that point!” Yura laughed, the warm vibration bubbling to the surface almost foreign. He didn't do that. Not anymore. Unless it was a Tuesday afternoon. “Okay, okay! But then, like—”

“Mr. Plisetsky?” The door opened halfway, and a nurse poked her head through the gap. “Oh, hello, Yuri!”

He nodded, his face dropping into an expressionless mask. The bubble had been popped and reality rushing back in, crawling all over him again. Yuri knew her, in a way. Not personally, but they crossed paths sometimes during his weekly visits. He was sure she told him her name at some point, back when Nikolai was first admitted, but he couldn't remember.

He should probably ask.

But he doesn't.

She stepped further into the room and smiled. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Plisetsky?”

“He's fine,” Yura snipped, glaring. She didn't deserve his attitude. She was just doing her job, just doing the best she could considering the circumstances. But there was no convincing the beast living deep inside him, growling and hissing and clawing through the bars at the mere suggestion that Nikolai was anything but 'fine'.

“Yuri, please.”

“It's alright.” She waved it off as she moved around the room. “I'll just check everything quickly, just to be sure.” IV, heart monitor, oxygen mask. She listened to his lungs and asked a few more questions, and though Yura crossed his arms and stared her down, he remained silent. If his grandfather wasn't fairing well, he wanted the nurse to know, or she wouldn't be able to help him.

And Yura would rather tell Lilia to 'fuck off' than stand in the way of Nikolai's health.

But his patience snapped when she pulled him aside. “What? Is something wrong?”

“Not … exactly.” The pity in her eyes made Yura's gut twist. “It's about the treatment we discussed a few weeks ago.”

“I'll have the money.”

“Yuri—”

“I will!” he snapped. “I just had a bit of a setback. But I swear, I'll be able to cover it.”

She studied him for a moment, a frown creasing her brows, before sighing. “Alright. If you're sure.” She glanced over Yura's shoulder. “I'll be back in a few hours to check-in.” Then she was gone, the air buzzing as she swept from the room and shut the door.

The latch barely _clicked_ before Yura was back at his grandfather's side, his metaphorical hackles risen, his skin prickling.

Nikolai tilted his head. “What's going on, Yuri?”

“It's nothing, grandpa. Don't worry about it.”

“It's about the treatment, isn't it?”

“I said it's nothing.”

“We can't afford it.” It wasn't a question. It was a shard of glass scraping Yura's throat and slipping into his bloodstream, masquerading as the ice already in his veins to slowly tear him apart from the inside.

“I'll make it work.”

“You're a student.”

“So? I have a plan, okay?” Yura took Nikolai's hand and gently squeezed it. “It'll be fine. _You'll_ be fine.”

His grandfather's gaze was piercing. Yura looked away, fearing Nikolai would see right through them, like a window to his cold, dark, shriveled soul. He didn't need to see what Yura had become. He deserved the little boy who squealed at kittens and danced through the house in makeshift costumes fashioned from blankets and table clothes, who spent a whole year using only purple crayons and cutting out paper snowflakes to hang in the windows in the middle of summer because they're 'pretty'.

“Yuri? Be honest with me. Please.”

Yura sucked in a breath and forced a smile. “Everything will be okay, grandpa. I promise.”

* * *

Yura slammed the door and dropped his bag in the middle of the entryway. The broken zipper transformed his beloved leopard print backpack into a beast of chaos, unleashing its fury in a spew of clothes, tangled headphones, candy wrappers, and half-eaten chip bags. Yura was an artist at heart, and the floor was his canvas. His haphazardly kicked off sneakers completed the masterpiece with a satisfying _thump._

“Floor plans and coffee! Now!”

Chris sighed. “Hello, kitten. Welcome home. I'm fine, thanks for asking.”

“Don't call me that. And put that fucking thing away. We have work to do.”

A dramatic eye-roll was Chris' only answer, but he still tucked a bookmark between the pages of the novel cradled in his palm and set it aside, before having the audacity to _slowly_ stretch over the entire couch. He resembled Potya after waking from an afternoon nap. Yura grit his teeth. He hated how relaxed Chris was while every muscle in his own body was so tightly coiled, if one loosened, it would probably have enough force to spring him to the moon.

“Sometime this century would be nice!” Yura spat. More acidic remarks sizzling on the tip of his tongue, but footfalls down the hall had Yura whipping around, his attention honing in on new prey. Claws out, fangs bared, he was going for the jugular. “And you!” Yuri froze half a step into the living room. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! You knew what time I'd be home! Why is nothing ready?!”

“Well, hello to you, too.”

“Fuck you! I'm still pissed you got your ass handed to you by Auric.”

“You weren't doing much better with Valerian.”

“Shut up, Chris!”

Yuri and Chris glanced at each other, and the expression they exchanged made Yura's blood boil. Disappointment. Exasperation. The silent judgment, the unspoken 'we know better than you' and 'maybe one day when you grow up, you'll understand'. But they weren't his parents. He didn't _need_ parents.

Yura kicked the coffee table. The glass surface rattled but remained intact.

If only he hadn't taken off his shoes yet.

Yuri sighed and removed his glasses, wiping the lenses with his shirt. “I already apologized, Yura. What else do you want?”

“For you to go back in time and get the fucking painting!”

That was all they had been there for. It was the only request made by their anonymous buyer. That very specific painting, tucked away deep in the heart of the gallery. It took weeks to prepare for; hours of studying floor plans and security routes, visiting the gallery to scout out the cameras and find vulnerabilities. But none of that mattered now because Yuri had been _right there,_ right in front of it, and lost to Valerian and Auric.

“I was outnumbered!”

“Only because Chris' balls shriveled up!”

“Oh, like you could have done it.”

“I wasn't the one holding the gun!” They barely spoke after their failure. Yura had gone icy silent, refusing to interact with either of them and stormed straight into his bedroom the moment they got home. His rage had since thawed, had washed down the drain of the studio showers, but what remained was flammable, and his trip to the hospital had stoked the fires. Yura rounded on Yuri again. “You're just lucky we have another request lined up, or I'd be cooking bacon right now!”

“Hey!”

“Well, we have to keep food on the table somehow. Maybe if you reconsidered that extra serving at every meal—”

“That's enough!” Chris darted between them, forcing Yura to step back. He wasn't sure when he'd moved closer, when he'd closed the gap between himself and Yuri, but in a blink, there was a wall of knit wool in his face. “We get you're angry, Yura. We do. But that was uncalled for! There's no reason to attack us. We're _helping_ you!”

“Yeah? Really?” Yura hissed. Despite being several inches shorter than both of them, he shoved Chris into Yuri. “Some fucking help you two are! I don't even know why I keep you both around! What's the fucking the point of having a team if I have to do everything myself?!”

“We tried our best!”

“Did you, though?! And I suppose that means you 'tried your best' the last two times, too, right?!”

“That's not fair!” Chris snapped. “It's not our fault the golden trio are always on our asses like dogs in heat! You're grasping at straws here!”

“Well, maybe I wouldn't have to if you two weren't holding my head under the water!”

Chris scowled. “Excuse me? Yuri works a job he hates to keep a roof over your head, and I'm here every day after leaving the office! Do you really think I have nothing better to do with my time than to deal with your temperament after I've spent hours mindlessly inputting spreadsheets? We slave away on your schedule, melting our brains on endless floor plans and hacking, bending over backwards to satisfy the buyers, putting our own freedoms at risk! And we do it all for you! What more do you want from us?!”

“For you to do something right for once!”

“We're doing everything we can! Damn it, Yura! We know how stressful the situation is!”

“Stressful? _Stressful?!_ ” Yura roared. Ice flooded his veins, and his whole body trembled like a cage being rammed over and over again by a rabid beast. “This isn't a _stressful_ situation! Stressful is when I have an exam in the morning, but I've had no time to study! Stressful is when Jean slides up beside me at the studio to do his warm-ups when there's an entire fucking room available! Stressful is when I can't sleep because every time I close my eyes, the nightmares claw me to shreds from the inside! But this?! _THIS?!_ This isn't a stressful situation, Christophe! This is a life and death situation. AND I CAN'T LOSE THE ONE PERSON WHO'S EVER ACTUALLY CARED ABOUT ME!”

He didn't know when the tears started, but they were already dripping onto the carpet by the time he collapsed into a pile on the floor. His gut twisted. His heart beat against his ribs as though it were trying to break through them and escape. He shook violently as wave after wave of throat-tearing sobs tore from his body. Searing heat and razor-sharp cold battled for dominance, and Yura curled into himself like an infant in the womb.

Time stood still as arms draped around him from all sides. And for a moment, Yura was unmasked as the child he still was. He ran around with the grown-ups, he played the big games and talked the big talk, but when the cards were tucked away and the conversations fizzled out, all that was left was a scared little boy who just wanted to be loved.

There was a voice in his ear, and those six whispered words were a bittersweet tonic.

“We care about you, too, Yura.”

* * *

_“Maybe they won't show tonight.”_

“Please. They've had perfect 'fuck you' timing for the last few months. They'll be here.”

_“Are you sure about this, kitten?”_

Yura rolled his eyes. _Tiger._ His fucking nickname was Tiger! Yuri and Chris were the ones who insisted on the atrocious aliases to begin with, so the least the assholes could do was address him properly. “Yes, I'm sure, _Agape._ ”

_“It's Eros.”_

“Oh, shut up, Cherub.”

_“Cupid.”_

“Tiger!”

_“Stop it!”_ Yuri sighed, his breath coming through the headset in a crackled _whoosh_. _“We need to stay focused, or we'll miss our chance.”_

Despite Yura not wanting to admit it, Yuri was right. They spent too many hours over the last several days planning this mission. Too much was riding on it. They couldn't afford to lose the herring in the pond, not after so carefully smoking it to the perfect red hue. They still had an objective, still intended to walk out of the auction house with their prize in hand, but Yura was done playing by someone else's rules. Especially Valerian's.

If the hound was going to keep his nose to the ground, it was about time they threw off the scent.

But Yura was nothing if not petty, which is why he hissed, “Yes, mom.”

_“I thought I'm 'mom'.”_

_“Guys!”_

A creak echoed through the auction house, followed by footsteps. Two sets of them. They moved slowly, indicating the careful pace of their rivals. Yura clenched his jaw and curled even lower to the floor, ensuring he was entirely hidden behind the crates. His skin tingled, and his heart raced. A wildcat ready to pounce.

A pause, then the footfalls split off. One set moved toward the showrooms, the other entered the storage area. Yura waited until his mark moved deeper, past where he was hiding, then he slipped out and slowly trailed behind. He tried to keep his distance, following just close enough to keep the silhouette in sight through the darkness. The downside to not actually being a cat. His fingers curled around the handles of his daggers—

His target stopped. “Tiger?”

Yura smirked behind his mask. “Auric.”

An almost amused huff. “You played us.”

“Like a fiddle.” Maybe he was a little too smug about it, but Yura didn't care. When Chris theorized the other thieves might be hacking their files, it was Yura's idea to plant information to specifically bait them. As for their real plan, they returned to the nearly barbaric pen and paper system. Yura had to buy a _notepad,_ for God's sake.

“I'm impressed.”

“You should be. I'm a genius.”

“Hm ...” Yura unsheathed his daggers, keeping his movements slow, even though Auric's back was still turned. He was so close. Less than two arms-lengths away. But as he inched just a little closer, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Auric was too still, too quiet. He froze when Auric turned his head, glancing over his shoulder. “You're also blind.”

“Wh—”

A flash of light. Yura cried out and shielded his eyes, stumbling back from the flare, and before he could adjust, something solid slammed into him. His daggers slipped from his grasp, and he gasped, breathless when his back hit the wall. Yura's head spun, but he managed to pry his eyes open just in time to dodge Auric's weapon. He ducked down, the blade meeting brick instead of flesh.

His opponent hissed.

The flare was still active, so Yura used it to his advantage. He dove between Auric's legs, grabbed his daggers off the floor, rolled onto his back, and crossed them over one another just in time to catch Auric's next strike. The metallic kiss of the three blades echoed through the storage room. Auric was practically on top of him, trying to press his weight into their stalemate, but Yura tucked his legs in and kicked him in the gut.

Panted breaths in his ear meant Valerian found Yuri, but he didn't have time to focus on them right now. Auric fell away, clutching his belly, and Yura sprung forward, throwing his whole body into the attack. He managed to get Auric on his back and even knocked the blade from the man's hands, but in a blink, their positions were reversed. Yura's head hit the floor when Auric rolled on top of him, and the blond hissed. His vision blurred, the light from the flare and the moisture in his eyes casting everything in shades of red and orange, like a watercolour sunset. But there was nothing beautiful about this place, this moment. They were tumbling around in a dusty storage room, fighting for their lives.

The weight of his daggers disappeared again, and cool metal was pressed against Yura's forehead. It wasn't a blade. It was thicker, round. Yura blinked several times to clear his eyes and scowled at his opponent. This was it. The end of the road. He was stuck.

“Do it,” he hissed.

Auric held steady, but he didn't pull the trigger. He blinked, his brows creasing. The black bandanna wrapped around the bottom half of his face made the rest of his expression unreadable, but his question filled in the gap. “What?”

“Do. It. Shoot me!” Auric's throat bobbed, and Yura forced out a humourless laugh. “You can't, can you? I fucking knew it! You're a coward!”

“Is that how you sleep at night, Tiger?” Auric shot back. “By running your mouth? You can't land a real strike, so you lash out with your tongue instead?”

“Fuck you.”

“Bold words for someone staring down a barrel.”

“Why do I care? You can't do it.”

Auric growled and readjusted his grip, his index finger curling over the trigger. Yura tensed, and this time, it was Auric who huffed out a laugh. “Scared?”

“Just shut up and do it!” Yura grit his teeth, fighting back the tears threatening to ruin his final moments. Fuck sake! If he was going to die here, now, with his brains splattered across the floor, the least he could do was maintain his badass image. No one went down in history as the man who cried for mercy.

They stared each other down, but nothing happened. Auric didn’t pull the trigger. Instead, like the wuss he was, he moved his finger _away_ from it. 

Yura grabbed the barrel but didn't push the gun away. He didn't try to twist it from Auric's grasp or fight his opponent off, either. Instead, he ripped his mask down with his other hand and shoved the barrel in his mouth. Auric's eyes widened, and he tried to pull back, but Yura refused to let go, his heart and soul screaming into the abyss, daring Auric to prove him wrong.

When his attempts to withdraw failed, Auric stilled. Yura did, too. Gazes deadlocked, Yura tried to not gag. Time no longer mattered. The air between them buzzed. There were voices in his ear, signs of the fighting still happening elsewhere in the auction house, but it was nothing more than background noise, like a television left on in a different room.

Yura finally let go of the gun, and Auric fell back, releasing him. But instead of the cold wash of relief, Yura was flooded with searing heat. “I was right! Fucking coward!”

“So I've heard.”

“You finally had me where you want me, and you couldn't follow through!”

“What are you—”

“If you're going to rip everything away from me time and time again, at least have the balls to end my suffering!”

“Wait, what?!” Auric reached up and tugged the bandanna down, revealing his frown. “What are you talking about?”

“You tell me! You've been tailing us for months, asshole! Hacking into our files—”

“Whoa, wait! Hold on. We haven't touched your files!”

Yura growled, venomous comments broiling on his tongue, but the combined cries of Valerian and Yuri through the headset made his heart drop. He was already on his feet before Chris hissed, _“What the fuck is going on?! Tiger—”_

“I'm on it!”

Auric was up, too, but Yura wasn't taking any chances _—_ and tackled him. Thankfully, the element of surprise was in his favour, or he wouldn't have been able to bring down the solid wall of muscle he slammed against. His rival gasped when his back hit the floor, and Yura seized the moment to grab his gun before darting for the exit.

Something whipped past his head. Yura flinched and stepped back.

Auric's dagger. It was embedded in the door.

“You missed.”

“Can't miss what I wasn't aiming at.”

Yura turned. Their gazes met, and for a heartbeat, the world disappeared. Everything was still and quiet and peaceful. Things that had escaped Yura for months—no, _years._ He stared into the brown eyes of the man kneeling on the floor, and for a moment wondered; if things had been different, if they had met under different circumstances, would they have been friends?

He blinked and the moment was gone.

“Good point.” He lifted the gun.

The flare died out.

Yura pulled the trigger.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for turning off all the security for us! We can always count on you boys.  
~ Kisses, the King & Queen._

* * *

Last night was hell. This morning was hell. Everything was going to hell. And why the hell was this meeting taking so long?!

“Oh my God!” Yura leaned back in his chair and groaned. Three hours. 180 fucking minutes of never-ending nitpicking and whining. Group assignments grated on his nerves. “Mila, shut up!”

“Excuse me, but last I checked, I'm the leader of this project.”

“Yeah, well, I don't know about the rest of you, but I have better things to do with my time!”

“Things more important than school?”

Yura glared at Seung-gil. He didn't like him. Granted, Yura didn't like _any_ of the students in the program. It wasn't personal—except for Jean. They were just a waste of time. Why invest in people who would only be in his life for a few years? People who were his direct competition? Yura didn't believe in the 'we're a team' rhetoric. Yes, they studied together, trained together, and performed together, but just because their choreography was in sync, it didn't mean they were equals.

Someone always had to come out on top.

And it didn't exactly help that Seung-gil's stoic expression, dark gaze, and cold delivery made Yura's mind wander down dangerous paths. To dusty crates and musty air. To flickering red light and glinting blades. To black bandannas and deep brown eyes.

“Yes, actually!”

“Oh please, princess,” Jean scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You're nineteen. What could possibly be of such great importance that it takes precedence over your education?”

His sick grandfather. His injured roommate. The pricks who swooped in and made off with the necklace their buyer requested. Yura's entire existence was falling apart around him. He was shipwrecked and drowning in an ocean of darkness, clawing at his throat in a desperate attempt for air. “Fuck off, Jean!”

“Yuri,” Mila warned, but he ignored her, his predatory focus honed in on the lone mouse stupid enough to bite the cat's tail.

“We get it, asshole! You have a perfect life. Everything is sunshine and rainbows and unicorns—”

“Yuri.”

“You shit glitter because you're a super special snowflake, and everything you've ever wanted was handed to you on a fucking silver platter—”

“Yuri!”

“God worships the ground you walk on, and angels jerk off with your name on their tongue—”

“YURI!”

Cold rage coursed through his veins. Yura's hand shot out, knocking over a mug. The ceramic clattered against the table, and Jean jumped to his feet with a shout. The coffee was fresh, hot. And it was all over the brand new denim Jean boasted about when he stepped into the café. Guang Hong shoved his chair back, dodging the splatter, but the same couldn't be said for his notes. Or his phone.

“What the hell, Yuri!” Mila snatched her own materials off the table and practically ended up on Sara's lap to avoid the rapidly spreading liquid.

Yura’s only response was a middle finger as he stood and tossed his backpack over his shoulder. He expected the weighted _thump_ of it slamming against his back, but the sensation was muted. Almost missing entirely. There was a slight tug on his shoulder, but otherwise, he was numb. He'd been drowning for too long, had swallowed too much of the darkness trying to pull him under.

Yura knocked over another mug on his way to the door.

“Hey! We aren't finished yet!” Mila yelled.

He glanced back, an icy remark on the tip of his tongue, but it melted when his gaze landed on Jean. On the dark stain on his clothes. Yura's heart kicked into overdrive, thundering against his chest. His ears rang, his vision blurred. He blinked, and there was Auric, stumbling into the showroom, skin pale, the hand pressed against his shoulder coated red—

Yura threw open the café door and ran until he couldn't breathe. Bile and tears choked him, and he doubled over, leaning into the bushes on the side of the road. He could run from them all he wanted, but he couldn't escape the truth.

He was the coward.

* * *

When Yura stepped into the apartment, he didn't paint the floor with his possessions. He didn't shout or make demands. He removed his sneakers and set them next to Yuri and Chris's shoes before walking into the kitchen.

Everything was still and quiet. His hair stood on end.

Yura slung his bag over the back of one dining table chairs and opened the fridge. He barely glanced at the contents before snatching a half-empty bottle of vodka. The cold glass nipped his palm, but he welcomed the discomfort. Chris always rolled his eyes about Yura chilling drinks, but the sting of the alcohol alone was never enough. If taking a shot wasn't a shock to the system in every way possible, was there even a point?

Bottle open, he left the kitchen and walked down the hall. Yuri's door was ajar. Chris sat on a chair pulled up beside the bed, a book in hand. He was quietly reading aloud to the lump under the blankets. Yura hovered in the doorway and took a swig, the _slosh_ serving as his greeting. He cringed from the icy-burn searing his throat.

Chris sighed. “Didn't you already have a half a bottle before you left?”

“You're not my father.”

“I'm concerned.”

“Yeah, well ... you can shove it up your ass. I'm fine.” He didn't want to talk. Not about school or Nikolai or the auction house. Yura's gut twisted, brown eyes and blood-stained hands invading his vision, and he kicked back another mouthful.

“Right. Which is exactly why you're day drinking.”

“Fuck you.”

Yuri groaned from deep within his comfort cave. The curtains were closed, but the sky was clear and the sunshine bright. The fabric did little to stop the glow from filtering in. “If you're going to drink in my room, the least you can do is share.”

“I'm not in your room, I'm in the hallway. And not a chance. We all know how you get when drunk.”

“I don't want to get drunk. I just want a sip.”

“You don't fucking _sip_ vodka! What kind of a monster are you?”

Chris removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It doesn't matter because _neither_ of you should be drinking right now.”

“Okay, mom.”

Two voices. In unison.

Chris gaped at the unmoving mass on the bed, and Yura almost dropped the bottle. One year. One year all together and Yuri never once spoke to Chris like that. He was always stupidly polite and respectful to a fault. Yura lost count of the number of times he'd screamed at Yuri, only to receive the disappointed 'parental stare' instead of some form of backlash. He didn't think Yuri could snap, but still secretly hoped for it, just to bear witness to it at least once in his miserable life.

Granted, this wasn't quite snapping the way Yura would have preferred, but he would take what he could get.

A sloppy grin spread across his face. “Wow, piggy. If I'd known it would take a blow to your head to get you on my side, I would have done the honours myself ages ago.”

“Hey!” Rustling. The blankets were pushed down, revealing Yuri's bandaged head, squinted eyes, and a pitiful pout. “I've always been on your side!”

“From everything he just said, _that_ is what you take issue with?”

Yura beamed, unable to contain it. He was steadily growing warmer and lighter, and it bubbled to the surface like boiling water. Maybe it was the vodka. It had to be. There was no way he was grinning because he actually enjoyed Chris and Yuri's company. Of course not. That would be ridiculous. He took another swig. “You know what? Just for that,” Yura looked Chris dead in the eyes and smirked as he held out the bottle to Yuri, “I'll let you have some.”

“Yura, no!”

“Yura, yes!”

A knock on the front door. They all froze, then Chris yanked the bottle from Yura's hand before he swept from the room. Yura growled and dashed after him, Yuri's _“hey!”_ following them out. The hallway was too small to properly dart in front of him, so Yura followed behind Chris like a loser, tugging on the back of his shirt.

“Give it back!”

“So you can give it to Yuri while my back is turned? I don't think so.”

“I wasn't giving it to him behind your back. I was giving it to him right in front of you.”

Chris sighed and stopped in front of the apartment door. He pulled his shirt from Yura's grasp and smacked his hand away when Yura tried to grab for the bottle. “Enough, Yura! Look, I know you're upset. I get it, okay? But this,” he shook the half-empty bottle between them, “isn't how you solve problems.”

“Maybe it's not how you solve problems—”

_“Chris?”_ Another knock.

Yura's fiery irritation cooled into an icy rage as his gaze darted between Chris and the door. He didn't even care about the vodka anymore. Much more exciting prey just stumbled into his hunting grounds. “You invited someone over?!” Yura hissed. “You don't even fucking live here, Chris!”

“Don't bite my head off just yet—”

“Too late!”

_“Ah, that sounds like Tiger.”_

A moment of silence. Yura and Chris stared at each other, the kitten seething, the cherub offering a half-hearted apologetic smile. Only five people would ever dare call him that. Two of them were already in the apartment. And two of the others were voices Yura would instantly recognize. Which left just one person.

“CHRISTOPHE!”

* * *

He was either too sober for this conversation or too drunk.

The moment Phichit stepped through the door and kissed Chris square on the lips, Yura despised him. On principle. Chris was practically his mother, so this was borderline 'meet the boyfriend' territory. Never mind the fact that Yura never even knew Chris _had_ a partner. He wasn't exactly known for being the 'settling down' type. But Yura's hatred for Phichit went so much deeper than some stupid 'parental betrayal'. This was personal. _Very_ personal.

Phichit was the other team's navigator.

Yura turned to Chris and smacked him upside the head. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“... is that a serious question?”

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN?!” At least Chris and Phichit had the decency to flinch.

“Look, Yura—”

“Don't you dare 'look, Yura' me! How long?!”

“... A while.”

“HOW LONG?!”

“A few weeks!”

“Weeks? _Weeks?!_ ” Yura wanted the bottle back. Not to drink it, but to break it over Chris's head. And maybe gut him with it after, too. It was the least he deserved for sleeping with the enemy and never saying a damn word about it. “I swear to God, Chris, if you're the reason they've been fucking us over—”

“No! No, no!” Phichit jumped in between them. He was either brilliant or a moron. A rodent jumping in front of a cat on the hunt; it was a bold move considering Yura's claws were already out, fangs already bared. It almost thawed some of the ice flowing through his vein. _Almost._ “Chris didn't tell me anything!”

“And why should I believe you?! You've had awfully good timing for someone who claims they didn't have insider information!”

“... Because we did.” Yura growled, and Phichit stammered, “Just not from Chris!”

Silence except for Yura's panted breaths. His gaze shifted between the two of them, and his lips curled. The storm raging inside him was just barely contained by his curiosity. One beast trading out for the other. “What the fuck does that mean?” Chris leaned around his boyfriend, but the moment he opened his mouth, Yura hissed, “Not you! I'm so disgusted, I can't even look at you right now. I asked your personal cock-sleeve!”

“Phichit.”

“Same thing.”

To his credit, Phichit just shrugged. “Someone _has_ been feeding us information, but it wasn't Chris. We had a strict 'no business' policy—”

“Fucking gross! I don't want to hear about your bedroom rules!”

“Right. Sorry.”

Yura rolled his eyes. “Who was sending you information?”

“We don't know. They remained anonymous. But for the record, we didn't know your team was on the missions until we were already there. Our informant only told us what to get, where to get it, and when to be there. Nothing more.”

So someone was hacking into their files, even though it wasn't the golden trio. But whoever was at fault was then using that information to puppeteer encounters between them as a distraction so the King and Queen could slip in for the mark instead. It was fucking brilliant.

“And you never found it odd that we were always in the same place as you? Every fucking time?”

“Not at first. But eventually, yeah.”

“Oh, when was that? When you were finally able to knock two brain cells together between the three of you? And you!” Yura glared at Chris. “It never fucking occurred to you to tell us what was going on?”

“Yuri, please,” Phichit was still talking, which was a wise decision. It kept Chris's mouth shut. “We didn't know for a while. We were already dating before we found out about each other. And even once we did, we didn't talk about it much because we thought our silence would help you _avoid_ more clashes.”

“Yeah, well, look how that turned out,” Yura spat. “Some fucking help you two are.”

“I'm sorry. Really, I am. We both are.”

“Don't speak for that asshole. Chris is fucking lucky I'm not clipping his wings right now.”

Chris sighed. “Yura—”

“No! Fuck you!” Phichit turned and rested a hand on Chris's arm. Their silent exchange earned them a scowl, and a snapped, “Why didn't you trace your informant?”

“I tried, but whoever they are … they were expecting it. I couldn't get past their security.”

“Aren't you supposed to be some kind of tech jerk off?”

Phichit frowned. “Chris couldn't trace them either.”

Yura's icy glare was back on the man in question. “Well, I don't exactly trust his judgment on things now anyway.”

“That's not fair, Yura. We tried.”

“Did you? Did you really? Because as far as I'm concerned, trying would have meant telling your fucking team about what was going on! Both of you just kept letting us beat the shit out of each other, and for what?! We were all being played!”

“We didn't know that, though!” Phichit reached out, as though he wanted to touch Yura's arm, too, but he seemed to decide against it after the deathly gaze shot his way. His hand dropped. “We didn't know about the King and Queen, either. Not until last night. This whole time, we thought _you guys_ were making off with all the loot.”

“ _Wow,_ you two really took the 'no business' policy seriously, didn't you?” When they both opened their mouths, Yura sneared, “Don't answer that.”

Phichit sighed. “Look, I really am sorry. But our team … we had our reasons.”

“Oh, really? Do tell since you're such a fucking wealth of information right now.” What could possibly be more important than his grandfather's life? Not that Phichit knew that was Yura's motivation, but that wasn't the point! If Valerian, Auric, and Phichit didn't have a damn good reason for fucking them over, Yura was going to castrate them and string them up by their balls.

“Ah ...” Phichit bit his lip and twisted his fingers together, his gaze darting between them. “I can't.”

For a moment, Yura was silent. A latent volcano, simmering. Then the lava bubbled, the mountain trembled, and the heat and smoke poured forth. “Why the fuck not?!”

“I'm sorry, but it's not my story to tell!”

“Oh my God!” Yura snatched the vodka bottle from Chris's hand and tossed it against the wall. “You two were fucking made for each other! Two peas in a moron pod!”

Chris stared at the splattered drink and shattered glass, and sighed. “I'm not cleaning that up for you.” Yura rounded on him, hissing, venomous comments rolling to the surface—but nothing oozed out. Instead, he stilled and pinned Chris with an icy stare, whose face went from disappointed, to confused, to exasperated. “No! Absolutely not! Yuri is not cleaning it, either!”

“Ah ...” Phichit frowned, and tapped Chris on the shoulder. “Did you just … tell him not to clean up his own mess?”

The tension snapped.

“What?” They said in unison.

Phichit pointed at Yura. “Yuri.”

“What?” Yura repeated. Then it clicked. “Oh! No. I mean, _yes,_ ” Chris had introduced him as 'Yuri' when Phichit walked in. “But ... no.”

“What?”

“I'm Yura.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Chris meant the other one.”

“The other what?”

“The other Yuri.”

They stared at each other, then Phichit slowly nodded, though his skin paled a little. “The … other Yuri?”

“Phichit?!”

Their heads whipped around. _The other Yuri_ was standing in the hallway. He was in his puppy pyjamas, his head still wrapped up, but he'd at least remembered to grab his glasses before stumbling out of the bedroom. Concussions were a bitch.

But none of that mattered because Phichit sputtered, “Yuri?!”

“What are you—”

“OH MY GOD! YOU'RE EROS?!” Yura and Chris startled, but the jump-starts to their hearts wasn't enough to prepare them for the bomb Phichit dropped next. “Holy shit! I feel like I'm having an existential crisis! Now I understand how Viktor felt when I told him about Chris.”

Silence.

Then Chris choked out, “What?!”

* * *

Yura stepped inside, the door creaking closed behind him with an obnoxious squeal. He scowled, but what else did he expect from the back door of some random bar? The kitchen was dark, but there was just enough of a dim glow coming through the window over the sink to move around without crashing into anything. He crept forward, his head whipping from side to side to ensure he wasn't about to fall into a trap. It was several hours before the bar would open, but his arrival was expected, which was all the more reason to be suspicious and careful. He didn't trust Phichit.

But he did trust Yuri, and he begrudgingly trusted Chris, which was why he was there anyway.

When he reached the door separating the kitchen from the rest of the bar, Yura paused, listening and peeking through the little window. Nothing. Silence. Stillness. So he slowly opened the door and stepped through.

He was behind the counter, which was an odd view. Yura was no stranger to bars but as a customer, and he rarely remained at the counter for longer than it took to order a drink. The dance floor was his realm, and if a bar didn't have a designated dance area, he made one. Maybe it earned him the wrong kind of attention a few times—hands that shouldn't roam his body, alcohol-laden breath in his ear, dry lips grazing his neck. But when Yura was drunk, he was like a child, misbehaving despite knowing the rules because _any_ attention was better than _no_ attention.

His fingers brushed over the countertop, but his gaze scanned the shelves.

Chris didn't let him have another bottle before leaving.

Movement caught his eye. Yura's head shot up. A figure by a staircase tucked away so well, if he had been standing on the other side of the counter, he might have missed it. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, then the person moved closer, and Yura's gaze landed on the blood-stained bandage over the man's shoulder.

“Auric.”

“Tiger.” His voice was gravely and deeper than usual. He must be tired. And in pain.

Sucked to be him.

Yura glared. “My navigator is sleeping with the enemy. I think we're past stupid aliases now.”

“We aren't your enemies.”

It didn't matter how many times someone said it, Yura's blood still boiled. It was so much easier to blame it all on them. On the three pricks tailing their asses without fail, the ones who battered and bruised them, who pinned them to the floor and tossed them against walls, who held weapons against their throats. The King and Queen were just faceless, nameless concepts, but Auric, Viktor, and Phichit were physical. Real. He could hurt them in return. He could look them in the eyes and cuss them out for everything they did to him.

Except he couldn't. They hadn't done anything. Not really. They had been played just as much as the rest of them. All the failed heists were because of the King and Queen. The man standing before him was just one of the fall guys, caught up in this mess just as much as they were.

But accepting the truth meant accepting his rage had been misplaced. Left him without a target. And what was a predator without prey?

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Auric nodded and slipped onto one of the bar stools, oddly calm for someone facing their shooter. Was he always like that? The calculated reservation was expected, but the vision of Auric imprinted in Yura's mind was also impassioned and ambitious, and sometimes even a little cocky. Yura deflated a little, a pang of disappointment vibrating through him. Was this really the same man who got his blood pumping and his heart racing? The one who made his gut twist and flutter simultaneously? The one who didn't have to smile to drag a grin out of Yura's blackened, shriveled soul?

Maybe the vodka hadn't been the best idea.

They stared at each other over the counter, but Yura's gaze darted around, trying to find anything else to focus on so he wouldn't have to look into Auric's eyes. His strong jaw, his thick eyebrows—neither of those were helping. His wounded shoulder—that was an immediate 'nope', too. Yura growled and tore his gaze away, scanning the bar instead.

“What the fuck is this place?”

“... a bar?”

Yura rolled his eyes. “Thanks, asshole. That's not what I meant.”

“Then speak your mind.”

“Don't tell me what to do!”

Auric lifted a brow, then shrugged his good shoulder and fell quiet. Waiting. The clever son of bitch. Auric may not be the ringleader of this clusterfuck, but he sure as hell knew how to pull someone's strings. Yura grit his teeth. The point of this meeting was to get answers, but he couldn't let Auric win.

Just because this wasn't a heist, didn't mean it wasn't a battlefield.

“Why are you even here?”

“Because I own it.”

That information slammed into Yura like a truck driving into a brick wall. “Are you fucking serious?!” he spat. Auric's blank stare only fueled his fury. “You're a business owner, Viktor struts around in designer suits. What the fuck are you doing stealing shit then?! Are you thrill-seekers? Or do you just take pleasure in ripping people's hearts out and stomping all over them?”

“What are you talking about? Viktor doesn't wear designer _anything._ ”

“So, you're dumb and blind then?”

Auric snorted, and Yura's skin itched. He was tempted to climb over the counter and strangle him. “No. Viktor … those aren't real. They're knockoffs. He's an intern. He doesn't have the money for that kind of thing. If he did, trust me, he wouldn't be slinking around auction houses and jewelry stores. At least, not at night.”

“Don't lie to me! I know designer fashion when I see it!”

“You've only ever seen us in the dark!”

Insults sizzled on Yura's tongue but never made it past his lips. Auric was right. All their interactions with the other thieves had been in the dead of night. And even with moonlight, there was only so well one could see in the dark.

Another bitter pill Yura didn't want to swallow. “He's got a gold-plated gun!”

“Oh, come on, Tiger. Like you've never spent money on things you shouldn't.”

“And what the fuck is your excuse then?!” Yura snarled. Rage thrashed inside him like a rabid beast in a cage. How dare Auric assume anything about him! His fingers twitched toward one of the bottles below the counter, though whether the intention was to drink it or break it, he wasn't sure.

For a moment, Auric just stared, then he got up and walked around the counter. Despite his measured pace, Yura stepped back, pressing against the wall. Too many tussles had him trained to keep his distance, but Auric didn't come near him. Instead, he stopped at the far end and bent down, pulling papers out from the bottom shelf. He set them on the counter without a word, then grabbed a cloth, and just ... walked away.

What the fuck? Yura's gaze darted between Auric and the papers, his mind racing almost as much as his heart was. If he really wanted to win, now would be his chance. The enemy's back was turned. He was literally offering himself to Yura—

_“We're thieves, not murderers.”_

Chris's voice invaded his mind, and Yura hissed under his breath as reality pressed down on his alcohol-laden brain. He already had his chance last night. Yura could have shot Auric in the head or the heart, but he didn't. He _couldn't._ And Auric hadn't gone through with it, either.

Apparently, none of them were backstabbers.

They were all fucking cowards.

Yura exhaled and shook some of the tension out of his limbs. This wasn't about revenge, this was about coming to an understanding. A mutual cease-fire. If they wanted to take down the King and Queen, working together was an unfortunate necessity. He needed to focus. He wanted answers. He'd _asked_ for answers. And they were right there, his for the taking.

Returning to the counter, Yura scanned the first document. Dates and figures—it was a bill. He frowned and looked at the next one. Another bill. His head tingled from far more than just his liquid mistakes as he curiously flipped through the rest of the papers. Numbers weren't his strong suit, even when sober, but it was impossible to miss the ink on the financial records steadily turning red.

Yura's stomach dropped as the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. “You're going bankrupt.”

Silence.

“What about a loan?”

“... It's not that simple.”

He looked up, but the moment their gazes met, Auric's eyes dropped, and he returned to pulling chairs down and wiping tables. Yura's stomach fluttered. Had Auric been watching him the whole time? And what was he doing? The bar wasn't opening for a few more hours. Maybe he was just one of _those people_ who liked getting everything done in advance? Yura opened his mouth, but the questions died on his tongue when the front door was pulled ajar, and a group of children poured in.

_Children._

In a bar.

“Beka!” one of the little girls squealed. Auric turned, a hint of a smile on his lips as he knelt down just in time for the girl to throw her arms around his neck. The impact made him grimace, but the minor hiss she squeezed out of him wasn't enough to dissuade Auric or his visitors. Yura stared, gaping like a fish out of water as several of the other children also approached him, too, offering hugs and fist bumps.

_Fist bumps!_

What kind of Twilight Zone was this place?

“Okay, okay. Calm down, everyone.” Another person stepped inside, closing the door behind him. An adult, or at very least, someone close to their age. He smiled at Auric. “Hey, Beks.”

“Leo.”

Yura blinked, snapped back to reality as though someone slapped him. _Beka? Beks?_ He looked back down at the papers. There, above the address of the bar, was Auric's name _—_

“This is why.”

Yura startled, the documents slipping from his fingers. How long had he been staring at those papers? When had Auric— _Otabek_ —returned to the counter? He stared at the man in question, then glanced over his shoulder. The children were settling around the tables. Many of them had backpacks or some form of bag. And Leo was handing out what seemed to be beer mugs full of crayons and markers.

None of this matched his perception of Auric. But this man wasn't really his alias anymore. The softness of his gaze as he looked out across the bar, watching the children colour and laugh and share in all the innocent, good things in life Yura forgot existed didn't belong to the cold, hardened, shadow-stepping thief.

It belonged to Otabek.

“Why … what?”

“You asked why I steal.” Otabek gestured around the room. “This is why.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Some of them are orphans. But most of them are from unprivileged families who can't afford after-school programs or babysitters.” The stairs creaked as they ascended, Otabek in the lead. Yura didn't trust him enough yet to turn his back. It wasn't exactly wise to follow Otabek to a secluded area, either, but after three of the children asked why Otabek was bleeding, a relocation was in order.

“So, they come here?”

“So, they come here.”

Yura scanned the narrow stairwell. The paint was peeling, the wood railings were faded and dull. The bar wasn't in the most fantastic shape either, but it was clear Otabek put more work into maintaining the downstairs portion of the building. Likely because customers would never see the second level.

Out of sight, out of mind.

“Why?” Otabek paused at the top of the stairs and turned, quirking a brow. Yura stopped too, a hand on the railing. “I mean … this is a _bar._ ”

A shrug of his good shoulder. “I saw a community in need.”

“So you took over a dying business to operate an illegal childcare service?”

“Yes.”

“But _why?!_ ”

“Because I used to be one of them.”

Yura stared, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall in place. If he was from a struggling or broken family, Otabek's shadow-stepping prowess likely developed over years of practice. Not out of spite or for money or even for thrills, but to _survive._ Yura couldn't pretend it hadn't crossed his mind throughout his childhood, too. Every time Nikolai struggled to put food on the table, his mind would wander to the bakery down the street, and he'd wonder how difficult it would be to snag a loaf of bread. The only thing that stopped him from going through with it was his grandfather himself—he would never have forgiven Yura for stealing.

How ironic.

Maybe Otabek and his alias weren't so independent of one another, either.

“Underprivileged?”

“An orphan.”

“Oh.”

That would have been Yura's fate, too, had his grandfather not taken him in. But until now, it wasn't something he ever considered. He always had his grandfather to rely on, always had the security of knowing Nikolai would catch him when he fell and make everything better when he cried. Even when he fucked up and spent money he shouldn't have because he was young and reckless and didn't understand the difference between basic needs and selfish desires. Even when he got in fights at school, not for being a dancer but for his larger than life attitude. Even when he ran through the house, swathed in blankets, and knocked over something breakable in his excitement. Or when he begged his grandfather for a cat they couldn't afford, just to have a friend.

Through thick and thin, Nikolai never once let Yura down. Which was precisely what Otabek was striving for, too.

The children's laughter floated through the air, and Yura glanced down the stairs. They seemed happy and carefree now, but how different were their lives when they left this place? What secrets did they hold behind gazes full of hope and wonder? Beneath eye bags hinting at sleepless nights and pressures children shouldn't bear the burden of? Despite not wanting to admit it, Otabek Altin was the most selfless man Yura had ever met. And yet, even with Otabek's help, how many of those children would turn out just like Yura in the end?

Bitter and broken, raging at the world because life was cold-hearted bitch.

“Tiger?”

“Yura.”

“Hm?”

Yura moved up the last few steps and stopped on the landing, facing Otabek. “My name is Yuri. But ... call me Yura.”

“Alright … Yura.”

His name on Otabek's tongue was wrong … and right. It made his spine tingle and his hair stand on end. Yura cleared his throat. “So, that is why you steal.” It wasn't a question. “You lose hours of business a day to accommodate those children. You can't bring in enough to renovate to attract a bigger crowd, the customers you do have can't support your little charity act, and you can't get a loan because you have no collateral and can’t risk eyes falling on your illegal after school program.”

Otabek's hands slid into his pockets. “Pretty much. I could save the bar, but ...”

The last piece finally clicked into place. The puzzle was finished, and the picture flooded Yura with an icy chill. Otabek didn't steal by choice. There _was no choice._ Saving The Golden Laurel meant abandoning the neighbourhood children. But saving the children meant losing the bar, which would ultimately result in the children ending up with nowhere to go anyway. There were two options, but in both cases, the children lost. _Otabek_ lost. He saw himself in those children, which is why he couldn't give up on them, but his heart of gold alone wasn't enough.

_“Look, I really am sorry. But our team … we had our reasons.”_

Those words slammed into Yura like a wrecking ball. Phichit and Viktor were Otabek's Yuri and Chris. They were his salvation. The only people he could trust with his secrets and to have his back. The only people willing to do anything, to put everything on the line to help someone in desperate need, even though they weren't much better off themselves. Thievery wasn't a shallow endeavour for them any more than it was for Yura and his team.

All those children downstairs were to Otabek what Nikolai was to Yura. And neither of them knew what to do to save them without risking everything.

Yura swallowed. “Leo works for you?”

“Yes.”

“But he doesn't know?”

“No.”

“The children?”

“Absolutely not. They have more than enough to deal with as it is.”

“How long do you have left?”

Otabek held his gaze for a moment before he turned and strode to one of two doors on the second floor. One had a sign labeled 'Storage'. The other was unmarked and was the one Otabek unlocked. He didn't respond, but his silence was answer enough; he didn't have much time. Bankruptcy and foreclosure were hounds already snapping at his heels. That was why Phichit finally came forward, encouraging them to put their differences aside to collectively hunt down the King and Queen.

Because the clock kept ticking.

Yura let out a shaky breath. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

Otabek looked over his shoulder. “What is?”

“Working together?”

“I think ... it's the only option we haven't tried. If it doesn't work … Well, we're already losing everything anyway, right? But,” Otabek turned the handle and opened the unmarked door, “if it _does_ work ...”

Yura approached. He didn't step through the doorway, not yet, but he stood beside his rival. That was three times now Otabek willingly presented his back to Yura, seemingly without fear. Four, if he counted last night. They were supposed to be discussing the cease-fire, their temporary alliance. That's why Yura was there. But all he'd done since stepping into the bar was look for traps while Otabek practically rolled over and showed his belly.

“You trust me,” Yura whispered, his gaze on the hand holding the door ajar.

Otabek chuckled under his breath. The warmth of it tickled Yura's ear. “I've seen you fight. I know what you're capable of.”

_You aren't a threat._

The desire to look at Otabek tugged at his soul, but Yura held strong. They were standing too close, things were too raw, too open. He wasn't ready to stare into those deep brown eyes again, to risk the world being pulled out from under him as it had in the auction house. There were no daggers or guns this time, but there didn't have to be for the air to thicken and buzz. When things got too intense, too real between them, it was always like that. Yura never understood why. It never happened with Viktor.

“Do you trust me?”

Yura didn't answer. Instead, he took a deep breath and stepped into the room first, his back exposed.

* * *

Since stepping inside, everything went silent. Otabek entered behind him and closed the door, shutting out the echoes of the children downstairs. Minutes passed. Neither of them moved or spoke. Yura wasn't even sure he was breathing. His gaze kept darting around, taking in the space around them. His gut twisted, and his skin prickled.

Otabek lived here.

Small business owners residing in the same building as their livelihood wasn't exactly uncommon. It was a smart decision. It cut costs for rent and travel, and saving money as an entrepreneur was generally a good idea. But this? The whole 'apartment' was no better than a glorified custodian's closet. A single small, grimy window along the back wall. On the right-hand side, a mattress on the floor, no frame, no box spring. A little two-row bookshelf beside it serving as a nightstand and dresser, clothes and a few books piled together. And along the opposite wall, an old, claw-foot bathtub.

That was it.

“Yura?”

A hand on his shoulder jolted Yura out of his horrified mindscape. But he couldn't stop staring. “Why?”

“Hm?”

“This. All of this,” Yura whispered. “Why live like this when you could have so much more? Be so much more? Why put so many people before yourself, people you don't even know?” He could reason through it a moment ago, when Yura believed it was just the children at risk, but now …

He could justify every horrible thing he did for Nikolai because that man was his _grandfather._ That man _raised him._ Nikolai deserved the world, and Yura owed him his every breath. But how could Otabek do this to himself? How could he sacrifice so much for people he owned nothing to? Yeah, it sucked that the children in the neighbourhood had it hard. But millions of people in the world did, too. It was just a fact of life. Otabek couldn't save them all. He could barely save the handful of children downstairs right now.

And if the bar was lost, it wouldn't just be those children with nowhere to go.

So why wasn't Otabek choosing _himself?_

“Because maybe … if more people in the world tried to help others in need, people like you and me wouldn't need to be so selfish. Wouldn't need to put themselves first because other people would have their backs instead. Everyone would be looking out for each other. Then maybe … people like us wouldn't have to fight and steal to survive.”

Yura swallowed. “Maybe, but … that's not how the world works.”

“Maybe it should be. And maybe it can be. One person at a time.”

“That'll take ages.”

“Then I'll wait.”

“You'll be long dead before any real change happens. _If_ it happens.”

“Yes, well … Rome wasn't built in a day.”

Yura wanted to snap at him, to rage and hiss and spit about how utterly stupid Otabek was being. But he didn't. He _couldn't._ Because deep down, he hoped Otabek was right. He hoped one person really could make a difference in the world and secretly longed for what that would be like in the end. To live in a world where everyone's lives were happy and safe. Where someone was always there to get you back on your feet went you tripped. Where someone was always willing to offer their help. Where the focus was on health and healing instead of on weapons and war.

That was the kind of world Yura wanted for Nikolai. It was the kind of world his grandfather deserved.

But it was foolish to dream of utopia.

“And in the meantime?”

“Hm?”

“While you slave your life away for a future you'll never see, what about you? While you are giving everything you have and more of those children, where are the things _Otabek Altin_ needs?”

For a moment, silence. Then, “... I have everything I need.”

Technically, that was true. Otabek had a place to sleep, to wash, and to cook, providing he went downstairs to the bar's kitchen. He had a roof over his head and electricity and running water. At least for now. But as Yura looked around the pitiful excuse for an apartment again, his stomach churned.

Despite his own financial struggles, Yura still had 'more' than Otabek. He had a roommate—and a half—who helped care for him, especially when Yura refused to take care of himself. He had his own room, littered with semi-functional devices, knickknacks and graphic tees, and all kinds of random shit he honestly didn't need but couldn't be bothered to dispose of. He couldn't even remember every individual thing he owned because half of it was buried under a chaotic mass of clothes, blankets, snack wrappers, and textbooks. And his bathroom actually had a _door_ and _walls,_ things that shouldn't be considered a luxury.

His gaze fell on the acoustic guitar leaning against the bookshelf, one of the only 'needless' items in the apartment. “Maybe,” Yura whispered. He turned and studied Otabek, his brows creased. “But do you have everything you _want?_ ”

The corners of Otabek's lips twitched. His usually cold, stoic expression seemed to thaw, and now that Yura was looking at him, really looking at Otabek, he couldn't tear his gaze away. He'd spent the whole time avoiding it, but now that he'd given in, he was stuck, falling into those deep brown eyes again. Eyes that spoke volumes without saying a word. Eyes that made the horrors of the space around them vanish and the air buzz with unseen energy. Eyes that made time and reality fade out of existence.

“I'm not sure yet.” Otabek reached up and gently tucked a lock of Yura's hair behind his ear. Yura shivered.

Silently blaming the bottle of vodka for his behaviour, he shifted closer and pressed his palms against Otabek's chest. The stiff muscles twitched beneath his fingertips, and Yura's heart pounded against his ribs like a sledgehammer. Words and phrases danced through his mind, but they fell flat compared to the storm raging inside him. Everything between them was familiar and yet new. Every step they took was along paths already tread, yet still overgrown and wild. They'd played the games of cat and mouse, predatory and prey, tiger and hunter for a long time.

Maybe it was time to stop running.

“Wanna find out?”

Yeah, that was definitely the vodka talking.

He blinked, and soft, warm lips brushed over his. Yura's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't his first kiss. It wasn't his second or third, either. But his whole body tingled, his senses igniting as though someone doused them in oil and set them ablaze. He leaned into it, closing the hair's-width gap between them.

It was everything and nothing. World-shattering and reality-stitching.

Something snapped and flooded through him like the rapidly spreading radiance of a glow stick.

Yura shoved Otabek. He stumbled back, hissing when his shoulder slammed against the wall, but Yura was already on him again. He grabbed Otabek’s shirt with one hand, hair with another, and crashed their lips together. A moment's hesitation, then Otabek's arms circled Yura, one sliding up into the back of Yura's hair, the other cupping and kneading his ass. The tentativeness and tenderness of their first kiss was gone, engulfed in the flames of tension and fervor, slowly built up between them over the last few months.

There he was. There was the Otabek—no, the _Auric_ —Yura secretly sought since stepping to the bar. No amount of taunts and soul-searching worked to drag him to the surface because the children were Otabek's motivation, but they weren't his passion. They were the reason he stole, but they weren't what kept him fighting and pushed him to his limits to get what he wanted.

Yura was.

He knew because … Otabek was the same for him in return.

Tongues danced, panted breathes heated the air. Yura tugged on his bottom lip. Otabek growled and hoisted him up around his waist, only to toss him onto the mattress like a rag doll. Yura gasped and squealed, but an uncontrollably grin bloomed as Otabek hovered over him.

“Whatever will we do without weapons to keep things exciting?”

“Who said we don't have any?”

Otabek's hands trailed down his sides, the gentle caress almost maddening. Yura arched his back, a demand on his tongue when Otabek grabbed the hem of his shirt and unceremoniously yanked it over his head. Goosebumps pebbled his skin, kissed into existence by the cooler air. Yura shivered and bit his lip. He tried to wiggle his arms out of the fabric, but Otabek apparently had other plans. He left the shirt wrapped around them and balled it up, pinning it over Yura's head. Electricity coursed through him from Otabek's gaze alone, and the anticipation of what was to come had him seeking more, but Otabek's other hand pressed his hips back down against the mattress.

Yura let out a breathy laugh. “Handcuffs aren't a weapon, dumbass.”

No response. Instead, lips fell upon his body, kissing a trail from his neck down the center of his chest. His skin tingled, but the movements were predictable—until Otabek's ministrations veered to the right. Yura gasped as a heated tongue dragged along his hip.

“Hm, the scar looks good on you.”

“You're only saying that because you gave it to me.” With Yura's own dagger. The night they first met. A jewelry heist gone wrong. Their inability to hurt each other without turning their own weapons against one another was almost poetic.

“So we're even now, then?”

Yura grinned. “Not even close. I should have shot you twice.” A sharp nip to his left thigh had him gasping again, and he squirmed against Otabek's hold.

Otabek chuckled, his hot breath dancing over Yura's skin. “What was that, _kitten?_ ”

Yura hated that nickname. Anytime Yuri or Chris or, God forbid, Viktor said it, Yura's blood boiled. He wasn't some defenceless, mewling, pawing baby. He was a fierce, roaring, battle-torn wildcat. But this time, it was different. _Otabek_ calling him that was different. Because Otabek saw him as more than some baby stumbling alongside the adults, play-fighting to learn to hunt. He saw the monster buried deep inside, saw what happened when it rose to the surface to strike.

“Shut up and kiss me!”

In a heartbeat, lips were back on his, a tongue invading his mouth. The shirt was gone, Yura's arms freed, which he threw around Otabek's neck. For a little while, that was enough; their shared breaths and squirming bodies pressed against one another. But the craving for more curled and bubbled in Yura's gut with every passing second.

“Beka!”

Otabek latched onto his neck. Yura moaned, his hips pressing up off the mattress beyond his control, but that seemed to be Otabek's plan because he grabbed Yura's waistband and pulled his shorts down.

“Leopard print? Really?”

Yura groaned. “Yes, really. Think about who you're talking to, asshole!”

Another soft chuckle. Yura's underwear was yanked down and tossed aside, too, then Otabek sat back and just … _looked._ His gaze scanned Yura from head to toe, like a hungry wolf sizing up a meal, and despite all of Yura's confidence and bravado, his skin prickled with a heat he didn't often experience. His cheeks warmed from far more than just their activities, and his stomach curled and clenched, begging for more. A plea that was echoed between his legs.

Otabek smirked, and that expression alone sent a jolt through Yura's body. He growled and reached for Otabek's shirt, barely skimming the fabric before his wrists were captured and pinned over his head again.

“Ah, ah, kitten. That's not how this is going to work.”

“What?” Every interruption had his senses screaming. And after getting a taste of those muscles beneath his fingertips, he craved more. “Why not?!”

Still smirking, Otabek leaned back down, hovering over him. “You're too used to calling the shots,” he purred, his fingers brushing along Yura's jaw, the gentle touch making him shiver. “And that might work for Eros and Chris.” They trailed lower, along the side of Yura's neck, and he bit his lip to stop himself from panting. “But the rules are different here.”

That wasn't fair! Otabek shouldn't be allowed to sound like that! That shit had to be illegal! Yura's heart slammed against his chest. He could barely breathe. His head was spinning. Or was it floating? It didn't matter. It was all Otabek's fault, and Yura both loved and hated how desperately he wanted more of it. More of all of it. More of _him._ More of the thing behind the mask that was only now being unveiled. Not Auric, not Otabek. But something both and neither. Something that slumbered within, a patient but vicious beast dragged out of the depths.

They were much more alike than Yura anticipated.

“O-oh?”

“Mhmm. Do you want to know why?” Otabek leaned even closer and brushed his lips along Yura's ear. And this time, Yura couldn't stop the whine that escaped him as Otabek whispered, “You're in my territory now, _Tiger._ ”


	5. Chapter 5

Yura grinned the moment he was flipped over, his face pressed against the pillow. His stomach twisted and turned, tying and detangling knots, just to coil and weave all over again while butterflies flit through the gaps. In a heartbeat, Otabek's hands were back on him, grabbing his thighs and hips, and Yura pressed into the touch, chasing it. If anyone else tried to manhandle him, Yura would claw their throat out. But with Otabek, he was putty, ready to be shaped and molded. That had always been their game; when one of them moved, the other followed. A dangerous dance, each step matched.

His arms were no longer restricted, but Yura kept them pressed against the mattress to steady himself as his back arched. Warm fingers trailed down his spine, curled into the round flesh presented. Otabek kneaded and rubbed before his hands disappeared.

“Stay,” he commanded.

Yura obeyed. He hovered there, ass up, the air licking his skin. His heart raced. Shuffling behind him almost made him look, but he held firm. At least for now. Driven by instinct, Yura was following the most exciting path; mystery and risk were their things.

When Otabek returned, something dragged down his back. At first, it was barely there—a whisper against his skin. But slowly, a tingling, prickling, then a pleasant sting as whatever glided down his back went over the same spots again and again. Yura sighed. Maybe it was the vodka, maybe he was just fucked up all on his own, but whatever Otabek was doing was a kiss of paradise. Pain was familiar. Pain was his constant companion. It was his destruction just as much as it was his salvation. Did Otabek know? How could he? It wasn't Yura who spilled his soul today. This man knew nothing of what plagued him, and yet, Otabek seemed to have the perfect remedy.

“I should have known.” More scrapes down Yura's back had his fingers curling around the sheets. Otabek chuckled. “You live and die by the blade.”

“It's your fault.”

“You were wielding daggers before we met, kitten.”

“Hm, but I never tasted them until you.”

The blade left his skin, and a moment later, Otabek's tongue dragged along the back of his right shoulder, over the second scar. Yura shivered, then groaned when the trail didn't stop. Otabek moved lower, licking over the sensitive flesh brought to life by the dagger, both soothing and igniting simultaneously. The dampness cooled in his wake, but true to their history, it was never enough to let nature take its course.

A purposeful breath danced along Yura's back.

“Asshole.”

Another breathy chuckle. Then nothing but the rustling of fabric. Unable to resist any longer, Yura turned his head. His hungry gaze fell onto Otabek, devouring every inch of skin as he stripped. The muscles that teased his fingertips not long ago rippled under the surface with every movement. Yura licked his lips, but his attention was quickly diverted as the last piece of clothing was peeled off Otabek's body.

Yura's stomach rolled and clenched all over again. Forget butterflies; there was a whole menagerie of winged creatures deep within his core. His eyes lingered between Otabek's legs, the stiff flesh between his own pulsing, _aching._ Yura curled a hand around himself, stroking just enough to get a taste of what he desperately wanted. His eyes slipped closed, and a soft moan spilled from his lips as his thumb brushed over the tip—

_Smack._

Yura gasped, his eyes flying back open. Wide emerald green met narrowed rich brown, and Otabek smirked, an expression that did nothing to calm the wild storm within him.

“Naughty kitty.”

The purr in his voice was a sin. Yura groaned. The sting along his ass both grounded him and dragged him away to a wonderful, hazy place. Was it the vodka? Or was he just getting drunk on this man instead? “Harder.”

Something flickered in Otabek's gaze, and Yura tensed. Had he gone too far? There were no rules between them, no limits set. But Otabek merely huffed in amusement and shook his head … before landing a second slap, this time on the other side. Another moan was dragged forth, and Yura's upper body sank harder against the mattress.

_Smack._

_Smack._

_Smack._

Drool pooled at the corner of Yura's mouth. His eyes sat half-closed, the lids fluttering lazily from each strike. His fingers curled and uncurled around the sheets like a cat kneading its favourite resting place. The worked skin burned, heat dancing beneath Otabek's hands as he soothed each side in between.

Yura had found utopia.

Until it stopped.

For a moment, he was too caught in the fog, but the continued absence of any kind of touch quickly pulled him back to the surface. Glancing over his shoulder, Yura was about to hiss his disapproval, only for the protest to die on his tongue as something cool and slick brushed over his rim. He shivered and bit his lip, then gasped and panted as the tease turned into a blissful intrusion. Yura was no stranger to the sensation. He didn't have the money for good toys, and he certainly didn't have the time to invest in such experiences right now, either. But sometimes, when he needed an escape, when he needed some kind of release that wasn't just pure rage thrown to the wind, Yura stole a few minutes for himself, locked away in his bedroom. But one's own finger was nothing compared to this, to someone else's touch.

“B-Beka!”

“Hm?” Otabek stilled. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” Yura groaned and pressed back onto Otabek's hand. “God, no! Don't you dare fucking stop!”

A huffed laugh. “So demanding.”

“Shut up!” But it was Yura who fell quiet as a firm thrust filled his gut with heated lightning, leaving him a drooling, boneless mess all over again.

“What was that, kitten?”

Was his tongue even still functional? “Just … _fuck._ ” Apparently. Sort of. Certainly more than his brain was. Yura panted and pressed back again, seeking what he desired with a choked, “More!”

That seemed to be all Otabek needed to hear. From one heartbeat to the next, Yura was melting against the mattress as fingers plunged deep and hard, relentless in their pursuit. First one, then more. It was impossible to distinguish how many as Yura drowned in the sensations. Sweet relief and sour frustration. His nerves were on fire. He was filled to the brim, and yet, it wasn't enough. He wanted less. He wanted more. Every withdrawal left him pleading, and every thrust had him praying to a God he didn't believe in. No, to the man kneeling behind him, giving him everything and nothing all at once.

The room disappeared and crashed back into existence again and again.

Yura's ears rang in the absence of his echoing moans when Otabek pulled his hand back. But this time, he didn't try to hiss or snap or demand anything. He shivered and gasped for breath, back arched almost painfully, ass still in the air, waiting. He was left empty. Maybe it was just for a few seconds or maybe hours. Time was irrelevant. But the torture wasn't. He ached, craving more. Otabek had torn a hole in his soul that desperately needed to be filled as badly as his body did.

Warm hands were on him again, curling around his hips. More cool slickness pressed against his begging entrance. And for a split second, the world came back into extreme focus; the dust dancing in the sliver of remaining daylight leaking through the grimy window, the hint of children's laughter downstairs, the peeling and naked brickwork containing them from all sides. Then it all vanished.

Sweet relief and burning pain. Satisfaction and discontent. Yura wanted to both chase it and cower away.

Otabek stilled. “Breathe, kitten.” One of his hands released its hold on Yura’s hip to instead rub along his back. Yura sighed, the ice-cold tension slowly melting away, though his breath caught when he clenched around the rock-hard flesh buried deep inside him. The sensation of 'not enough' was gone, but the fullness was almost too much now. How had he not been split apart? Or had he been? Did he care? “Relax,” Otabek murmured, his soothing touch changing into an active massage along Yura's shoulders. “Do you trust me?”

There was that question again. The question Yura refused to answer before stepping into the room, before exposing his back to the man who could have very easily killed him right then and there. Who always could have killed him. He had his chances, but Otabek backed down every time. Even with the barrel rammed down Yura's throat and absolutely nothing to lose by pulling the trigger. Even with Yura naked and prone beneath him, dagger in hand, the tip kissing Yura's skin again and again.

Otabek was right; they weren't weaponless. But the real weapons they wielded today weren't fashioned from steel or filled with ammunition.

_They_ were the weapons.

“Yes,” Yura whispered. First into the pillow, then he turned his head and glanced over his shoulder at the only man in the world who ever saw him for who he really was, the good and the bad, and still took a gamble on him, despite the risks. “I trust you.”

The last of the tension dipped away as their gazed met. Their connection was no longer overwhelming, no longer stifling or painful. The stretch, though still nearly otherworldly, was a welcome invasion. Otabek's eyes smiled more than his lips did, but it was there, tugging at the corners, and that was enough for them both.

He started moving.

Otabek's hands returned to Yura's hips as the gentle rhythm began. At first, Yura pressed his face into the pillow and choked back the whimpers. His muscles kept trying to tighten, kept trying to ward off the foreign sensations, but Yura forced himself to focus on his breathing and keeping his body as relaxed as possible. It was easier said than done, but the moment hints of the pleasure he was accustomed to started to trickle back in, everything changed.

The little crack in the wall of discomfort splintered and tore open, the leak turning into a flood that nearly bowled him over as the tides turned and washed over him. Yura's heady moans filled the room. His gut churned and fluttered, magma and butterflies dancing in harmony. What once was too much, filling him too well, became the center of his very existence. His body greedily swallowed Otabek with every thrust, and Yura started pressing back, meeting his lover's every movement. They worked each other in unison, their combined cries of ecstasy drowning out everything around them.

Nothing else mattered but their panted breaths and slapping skin.

Every nerve in Yura's body was ablaze, his senses both brought to life and numbed by the electricity searing his soul. When he was at his breaking point, sure he would shatter into thousands of pieces in Otabek's grasp, he gasped the man's name.

A hand curled around him, tight and urgent, and Yura crumbled. His gut erupted. His head spun. His throat burned from the mating call wrenched out of him.

* * *

“So, what about you?”

“Hm?” Yura tilted his head back. Their legs were entwined, arms curled around each other. Yura's chest was pressed against Otabek's side, his head resting over the steady rhythm of the man's heart. Their sweat-coated skin had cooled, and the sun had set, but they were warmed by the blanket pulled over them.

“Tiger? Your team? You asked for my truth. What's your story, kitten? Why do you steal?”

Despite the tingles trickling down his spine as Otabek's fingers gently combed through his hair, Yura's stomach clenched. The cage that stood between them, isolating them as passionate lovers and fierce rivals, had crumbled and faded with the last rays of light. They could no longer keep the two worlds apart. Yura expected it eventually. It would have been foolish to believe they could go on without reality crashing back down on them. But he'd hoped they could remain as Otabek Altin and Yuri Plisetsky for just a little while longer.

He didn't want to talk about Nikolai. The pain that sliced through him from the inside out, shredding Yura's heart and soul anytime he even thought about his grandfather made him wish for the kiss of the blade again. The scars gracing his body had been far less painful. But what choice did he have? If they were going to band together against the King and Queen, secrets would only serve to destroy their alliance. And like hell Yura would let Yuri or Chris tell the others about Nikolai's condition instead. They had no right to speak of it. That man was _his_ grandfather, _his_ guardian, _his_ saving grace.

But as Yura gazed into Otabek's eyes, the usual acid that would sizzle along his tongue didn't even bubble to the surface.

_I trust you._

Through the wild, tangled maze of pain and confusion, something new bloomed. Maybe talking to someone else for change wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Yuri and Chris were too close to the situation, and Yura often caught them sneaking glances that made his blood boil. He didn't want pity or consolation. He wanted a way to save Nikolai! And petting his head and saying, _'I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?'_ wasn't going to help. Not now, not ever. They cared, they meant well. But a good heart only went so far when there was no action to back it up.

And maybe Otabek would understand that. Even when facing each other with weapons drawn and adrenaline pumping, they always seemed to vibrate on the same level, to be in tune with one another. Two lonely souls, beaten and broken by the cruel, spiteful fists of life. So similar, and yet … They were two sides of the same coin; the circumstances were the same, but the outcome different. They were both doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons, both had lives on the line, yet viewed the world through an entirely different lens.

Perhaps it was time to borrow Otabek's looking glass.

Besides, it was weird to hide things from the man who's fluids were leaking out of his ass.

Yura sighed. “Because … of my grandfather.” Otabek frowned but didn't interrupt, so Yura pressed on. “He fell ill half a year ago. He needs treatments, but ...”

“You can't afford them.”

“... Yeah.”

Otabek's fingers stilled for a moment before returning to the gentle trails through Yura's hair. “Does he know?”

“Of course not.” The silence was punctured by the scraping of chairs and occasional laughter from downstairs and the traffic outside. Though after a minute of nothing between them but soft breaths, Yura poked Otabek's chest. “That's it?”

“Hm?”

“You're satisfied with just that? I barely told you anything.”

A quirked brow. “So?”

“I asked you a shit ton of questions.”

“And?”

Yura rolled his eyes and poked Otabek's chest again, this time harder, earning a satisfying wince. “Don't pull the 'strong silent type' bullshit on me, _Auric._ I know you better than that.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“If you make me poke you again, my finger will go straight into that fucking hole in your shoulder.”

Otabek snorted. “What do you want me to say? I asked, you answered.”

“Why aren't you more curious about it all?”

“Why do you want me to be?”

Yura tensed. That was a good question. By all rights, he should be relieved Otabek wasn't prying, but instead, his stomach curled as though it were trying to hide from itself. Yura tilted his head down and absently brushed his fingers along Otabek's chest. The disinterest stung. This man had carved him open and stitched him back together, leaving him forever changed. The world was so much bigger now, no longer squeezed tight and narrowed around just Yura and his problems. Was it so wrong to hope to have left some imprint on Otabek in return? To want to be heard for once without having to scream and rage? To be taken seriously instead of being treated like a child who needed to take his toys to the other room so the 'adults' could talk?

The ever-persistent claws of darkness scraped against his senses. Too many questions and none of them were the ones he wanted to hear.

“Please, Otabek.” Moisture pooled along Yura's lashes, and he bit his lip, fighting against the tears threatening to spill. “I know there's more going on in that head of yours than you're letting on.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You froze.” Silence. Stillness. Even the petting came to a halt. Yura wiped his eyes and looked up to find Otabek gazing at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Yeah, that,” Yura whispered. “You did it before, too. When you asked if my grandfather knew what I was doing. Why?”

“Yura—”

“Tell me.”

Otabek swallowed. “I don't think you'll like what I have to say.”

“... What is that supposed to mean?”

“Yura—”

“No, Otabek.” Yura sat up, flinching a little as lightning shot up his lower back, but it was nothing compared to the searing flames engulfing his heart. “You don't get to fuck me and then coddle me. I'm not a baby!”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because I thought we were past all the cloak and dagger shit now.”

“We are!”

“Are we, though?” Yura hissed. He glared and leaned away. “You don't get it, do you? I thought you would understand what I'm going through. I thought you'd be honest with me! It's not up to you to judge what I can and can't handle, which is why I _told you!_ If I wanted every thought filtered through a fucking strainer, I would have got back home to Yuri and Chris! But I'm here, _with you!_ ”

“Yura—”

“So start talking!”

They stared at each other, the air between them thick and stifling. Yura didn't move, he barely breathed as the silence stretched on. They were lost in one another's eyes again, but instead of the familiar sparks of passion, Otabek’s oil to Yura’s flame, igniting their every step, all that remained was smoking ash carried by a cold, lazy breeze.

After a minute—or ten, Yura wasn't sure—Otabek sighed. “Alright.” He rubbed his eyes and sat up, leaning against the wall after propping a pillow. “It's just … even if your grandfather doesn't know … he is aware you can't afford the treatments, right?”

Yura rolled his eyes. “Of course he is. He fucking raised me, and I'm just a student.”

“But he still asked for them?”

“Asked … for what?”

“The treatments.”

Despite not being sure where Otabek was going with this, Yura already didn't like the path they were treading. His hair stood on end as a chill flooded his veins. “He didn't ask for anything,” Yura snapped. “He never does. He's the most stubborn, hard-working man I've ever met. He'd dig his own damn grave if he could.”

Otabek tensed, a look on his face that made Yura's stomach twist. “... So he didn't ask for the treatments?”

“Are you deaf? I just said he's too damn proud to ask for help!”

“Is he too proud or …”

“Or _what?!_ ”

“... or does he not want to be saved?”

Yura froze. His brain stopped, his body didn't so much as twitch. Then all that ice seeped into his skin, leaked into and tainted every muscle and organ until he was so cold inside, it burned. His back straightened, and he pinned Otabek with an icy glare. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Otabek stared, his expression betraying his hesitation, before murmuring. “Are you trying to save him because he wants to be saved? Or are you trying to save him because _you_ want him to be saved?”

“Of course he wants to be saved!” Yura hissed.

“Does he, though?”

“Excuse me?!”

Otabek sighed. “Look, I understand that you love him. That he's important to you. But has he ever actually asked you to go out of your way to do the impossible just for a chance that he might survive?”

“I can't fucking believe this.” Yura stood, the arctic in his veins numbing the sting in his ass as he grabbed his clothes. “How dare you!” he spat over his shoulder. “You know nothing about him! Or me!”

“I know, but—”

“What fucking right do you think you have to say something like that to me?!”

“I just want to make sure you're doing all this for the right reasons!”

“Oh, like you can judge here, Mr. For The Children!”

Otabek groaned and palmed his face. “Yura, please. I just meant … it would be one thing if your grandfather actually wanted this. But ...”

“But what?! Huh?!” Shorts on, shirt in hand, Yura whipped around. “What? Go on! I can't fucking wait to hear what else you have to say about _my life_ and _my family!_ ” When all Otabek did was sigh, Yura growled. “If you're man enough to have the balls to start this conversation, then be man enough to fucking end it! SAY IT!”

The rapid beating of Yura's own heart was the only sound between them. Then, Otabek's shoulders sank. “I just think … you're maybe being a bit … selfish.”

A resounding slap echoed through the room before Yura stormed out, his palm stinging. He tugged his shirt on halfway down the stairs and rushed past Leo, who called out to him, but Yura couldn't make out the words. His ears rang, his head was spun, his vision blurred. He barely made it out the backdoor before curling in a ball against the cold brick wall.


	6. Chapter 6

_Want to settle this? 46 Malinovyy Lane. Tuesday, at midnight.  
~ Kisses, the King & Queen._

* * *

So peaceful.

The steady rise and fall of Nikolai's chest washed over Yura like a cool, gentle wave soothing sun-kissed skin. He stood in the doorway of his grandfather's room, leaning against the frame, muscles tight, his body unmoving, while his mind continued to spin and spiral. But with every passing second, with every additional breath Nikolai took, the coils began to unwind. Slowly.

Two days.

It had been two days since Yura peeled himself up off the ground behind the bar and stumbled home, an entirely new species of confusion and pain seeded within him. Two days in which it had taken root and started to grow, feeding on the endless darkness. Exhaustion clawed at his mind with renewed vigor as his own sleep became more sparse, and when he did finally manage to tumble into some form of unconsciousness, he woke coated in sweat and tears.

He skipped class. Yesterday and today. For a dancer, for him, it was a cardinal sin, something he would have crucified himself over for even considering, but it wasn't a thought. It wasn't a decision. Everything that motivated him, that pushed him to fake his way through any trial and torment had been shattered.

_“... or does he not want to be saved?”_

Nikolai stirred, rubbed his eyes, and yawned before settling again. Yura's heart slammed against his chest as he pushed out a shaky breath. He wasn't ready for this. He never would be, but he couldn't avoid it forever. The sands of time were slipping between their fingers, and among the dunes lay the broken pieces of Yura's soul. He was bleeding from the inside out, oozing from the open wounds, and his grandfather was the only person who could tend to them.

One foot in front of the other, Yura stepped closer on legs of lead. His sneakers squeaked as they slid over white, speckled tiles, his presence forever marked by the ugly grey scuffs left behind.

“Yuri?”

His gaze lifted. Nikolai's eyes were open, his body turned toward him, his brows creased. “Hey, grandpa.” The words were dry. Flat. Yura's tongue was nothing but ash.

“Why aren't you at school?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Silence. Nikolai stared. Yura stared back. His grandfather sighed and carefully sat up, but his arms quivered under the pressure as he settled back against the pillows. Yura's stomach twisted, and he tore his gaze away. “You could have just waited a few more hours, Yurochka. There was no reason to skip class.”

Yura shrugged and settled on the edge of the bed. “Too late.”

“Yuri.”

“Grandpa.”

“You love dancing.”

“I love you more.”

The air between them thickened.

Neither of them were good with their emotions, but while Yura tended to unleash his rage upon the world, hiding the truth in the storm’s eye, Nikolai silenced his, locking them away and hiding the key. That didn't mean they were cold toward each other, they just expressed their bond through other means instead. Through acts of service and gifts, high-fives and hugs. Through Yura reading science-fiction novels, watching soccer, and playing chess, even though it was never a surprise when his grandfather won. Through Nikolai watching feline documentaries, serving as a practice audience for his grandson's performances, and trying his hand at video games, despite never learning the difference between A and B, and always crashing his kart into a wall and ultimately driving backwards along the racecourse.

But words of affirmation? Verbal praise? They were far rarer, and even more so were the literal 'I love you's. But there it was. Yura's walls had been torn down. He was waving the white flag, searching for peace and sanctuary.

“Yuri?” Nikolai's hand rested over one of his, and Yura turned his palm. “What's wrong?”

Yura took a slow, deep breath before finally lifting his chin and looking directly into Nikolai's eyes. When was the last time he'd done that? Months ago? _Years_ ago? He'd been avoiding it for so long, terrified of his grandfather seeing the real Yuri Plisetsky, seeing what his 'treasured' grandson had turned into, molded by the hands of the cruel world, he forgot when it started. But now, armed with a question he didn't want the answer to, Yura was no longer sure it started only when Nikolai fell ill and he first took on the persona of Tiger.

His stomach clenched. “Am I ... selfish?”

“What makes you say that?”

“No reason.” Yura shrugged a shoulder, his gaze falling back on their joined hands.

Silence. Then, “Does 'no reason' have a name?”

Yura's eyes shot back up. “What?”

“Yuri,” Nikolai sighed and shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I know you. You don't let anyone get into that head of yours. Not the bullies on the school grounds, not the criticism by your instructors. Nothing has pierced that stubbornness and surety that is in your blood. So whoever said this, they must mean something to you, yes?”

“What? No! That's … ridiculous. I hate him.”

“If you really hated this person, his words wouldn't hold onto you.” Nikolai squeezed his grandson's hand. “You don't give people who don't matter the time of day. You don't let opinions that don't matter pay rent in your head. I've seen what it's like to be hated by Yuri Plisetsky. Those people never stood a chance.” A chuckle. It filled Yura's cold, bleak heart with warmth so strong, it burned. “Why do you think you are selfish, Yurochka?”

“Because I don't want to lose you.”

“But why does that make you selfish?”

“Because I'm the only person in this room who seems to care about whether you live or die!”

He didn't mean to snap, but all the confusion and anger and sadness that simmered within finally reached a boiling point. Otabek's words haunted him, chained him to a wall and tortured him for information he didn't have. The searing pain that shot through him from every unanswered question made his perception of reality bend and bleed. Or was that the actual problem? Maybe he had a warped view on reality all along, maybe he painted a picture of what he convinced himself the world looked like, only to now have the colours washed away to reveal the ugly truth hidden beneath.

The distant echo of the hospital speaker leaked through the closed door.

“Yuri … That's … It's not that simple.”

“Isn't it?” Yura didn't even try to hide the tears building along his lashes. He always kept a strong, brave face for his grandfather, always tried to bring a little ray of sunlight into the greyscale that devoured Nikolai's life. But right now, he couldn't. Not this time. There were no smiles to drag to the surface, no motivational phrases. He was drained, empty. “You've never asked for the treatments.”

“Because we can't afford them.”

“But I said I'd find a way.”

“I didn't ask you to do that.”

“That's my point!” He choked on the last word, the tears spilling free as his heart shattered just as thoroughly as his promise to never again argue with this man. “We're all we have left! I relied on you my whole life because you told me I could! Because you always promised to look after me! To provide for us! You asked me to trust you, and I did!”

“Yuri—”

“And the one time I've asked you to trust _me_ —”

“Yuri, please!” Nikolai cupped Yura's hands with both of his, squeezing. His face showed far less emotion, but it was there in the crease of his brows and the dampness clouding his eyes. “I do trust you! I've always trusted and believed in you. That's not what this is about!”

“Then what is it about?! Tell me, grandpa! Because I've spent the last six months doing everything possible to save you! Things you would never approve of, but I did them anyway because you mean _that_ much to me! But now, you're telling me it was all for _nothing?!_ That you _want_ to die?!”

“But I don't want that!”

“THEN WHY DON'T YOU CARE?!”

His screech bounced off the walls before giving way to the sobs. Yura curled over their hands, pressing his forehead against Nikolai's arms. His whole body trembled from the earthquake within his core as oceans poured from his eyes. He gasped for breath between each throat-tearing wail. And for a while, that's all there was—just the two of them, locked in the echo chamber of his torment.

As Yura's howls faded into whimpers, Nikolai worked one of his hands free and gently stroked his grandson's hair. “I do care, Yuri. More than you know. I'm sorry for not being more open with you. I'm sorry for everything you've put yourself through on my behalf. But it wasn't for nothing, please know that.”

Yura sniffled. He refused to move, using Nikolai's arms as pillows while he drowned in the soft touch along his head. “But you … w-want to ...”

“No, I don't.” His grandfather's hand never wavered as it combed through Yura's strands and then lifted, returning to the top, and starting all over again. “If there was a guaranteed way to cure me, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But that's just not how it works. I never asked for the treatments because we couldn't afford them, and I never wanted you to … well, do exactly what you have done.”

“... I don't understand.”

Nikolai sighed. “You are young. You are a student. You have your whole life ahead of you, and based on how things are going, an amazing career in dance on the horizon. I wanted you to focus on _that._ Regardless of my illness, I wouldn't be around forever anyway. And even if you somehow magically managed to get ahold of the money to pay for the treatments, they aren't guaranteed to work.” His hand stilled, the warmth soaking into Yura's hair and scalp. “That was why I never asked for them. I didn't want you to work yourself to the bone, only for everything you've worked for to end in failure.”

“But ...” Yura sniffled again and finally sat up, “what if they _did_ work? Don't you want to find out?”

“Not at the expense of you.” Nikolai rested a hand on Yura's shoulder. “If I'd realized how hard you were pushing yourself, I would have explained this sooner. I'm so sorry.”

“Why didn't you just … tell me to begin with?”

“Because I'm an old fool who just wants his grandson to be happy. And the moment I fell ill, the fire in your gaze when you swore to find a way to help me … I couldn't put that out.”

Yura rested his cheek against his grandfather's hand and closed his eyes. “I could never be happy without you.”

“Don't say that.” Yura's lids fluttered back open, and Nikolai cupped his cheek. “Don't tie your happiness to my existence. That isn't fair to yourself. And it isn't fair to me. I've lived a long life. A long, oftentimes stressful and overwhelming life, yes, but … I'd never take a second of it back. You are my pride and joy, Yuri. I didn't raise you to smolder into ash the moment my flames stopped burning. I raised you to blaze on your own accord, to spread your wings and fly. Don't give up just because one sun is setting. You're better than that. You're a Plisetsky.”

Yura choked on a bubble of laughter and pressed his own palm over Nikolai's, holding it in place. He welcomed the warmth against his skin, desperately trying to commit it to memory. His stomach still twisted and curled, but it was no longer like an ocean during a hurricane. It was instead like a child swirling pond waters with a stick. “I promise, I won't fail you.”

“You never have. And you never will. Just focus on your future, Yuri. Please. Lilia is giving you a chance I never thought possible. Don't waste it.”

“What?” Yura frowned. “What do you mean?” Nikolai let out a long, deep sigh and shifted against the pillows. And for the first time, it was his grandfather who broke eye-contact. “Grandpa?”

Another sigh. “I've told you before that Lilia and I go way back?” Yura nodded. “Well, things between us … It was a long time ago. I won't bore you with the details, but I was friends with her husband. And the way things went down … after he died, she never really forgave me.”

Lilia was married? How did Yura not know this? And why did Nikolai never talk about her husband?

“How did he die?”

“Car crash. But that's not important.” He gave his grandson a small smile. “I worried since you are my kin, she wouldn't give you a chance. That as soon as she learned you were a Plisetsky, your fate as a dancer would be sealed. That she would pit her contempt for me against you. But that didn't happen. Whatever her reasons for it are, she took you at face value, she gave you a chance to just be _Yuri_ and make a mark all of your own. I will be forever grateful for that. And you should be, too.”

Lilia's widened eyes and pinched lips when Yura first stepped into her studio made a lot more sense now. At the time, he passed it off as just who she was. She wasn't exactly known for being expressive beyond the viper-quick quips that spilled from her tongue. But now, looking back on it, that flicker of _something_ Yura saw in her cold, green gaze that day was more than just a distaste for the typical youthful arrogance of fresh students.

And yet … Yura was her top student.

The only biting and venom spitting that came his way happened when he wasn't performing at his best. Instead of tearing him down, she'd spent the past year building him up. If anything, she didn't try to snuff out the light that was the Plisetsky fire; she fueled it. Made it brighter. Made Yura's flames rise above that flicker of whatever pain and anger lingered between her and Nikolai.

She could have destroyed him. But she didn't.

Bile pooled in Yura's throat. All this time, he barely considered her human, let alone worthy of any gratitude. Respect, yes. But 'thank you' would never have been words to spill from his mouth in her presence. Yura gazed into his grandfather's eyes. His success wasn't just about himself or even them as a family. It was about going from a 'rags to riches' story, it wasn't about rising above the statistics and the odds and everything and everyone else who dared claim he would get nowhere in life. No, his success was personal. Not for Yura, but for Nikolai. His success brought peace to his grandfather through Lilia's invisible olive branch. And that kind of comfort couldn't be replaced or fixed by some overpriced medical treatment.

If Yura couldn't help Nikolai _live_ in peace …

Yura swallowed. “I am grateful.”

Nikolai smiled, his own green eyes shimmering like dew-coated grass caught in the rising sun. “That's my boy. Now, tell me about this 'he' of yours.”

“Ah ...” Heat tingled along Yura's cheeks, and he ducked his head down. “H-he's not … mine.”

“That blush says otherwise.” Yura groaned and flopped over, hiding his face against his grandfather's chest. Nikolai chuckled and pat his head. “Come now, Yuri. You went your entire highschool life without talking to me about a single crush. Give me this just once.”

How could he possibly say no to that?

So Yura sucked in a breath, gathering his courage, sat up and … talked. He left out the thievery and anything related to his and the others' aliases. He left out his binge drinking, and the King and Queen, and Yuri taking a brick to the head. He most certainly left out the sex, too. But he talked. Yura sat with his grandfather, time forgotten as he told him all about the most selfless man in the world.

* * *

“What do you mean Otabek is gone?!”

Viktor sighed. _“Exactly that. After we got the message from the King and Queen, nothing.”_

“That was yesterday morning!”

_“I know, but Otabek is a quiet guy. We just thought he was in one of his moods,”_ Phichit piped up. _“But when we never heard back from him, we called the bar. Leo said he's been missing since last night.”_

It was a good thing Chris was holding the phone, or it would have tumbled to the ground. Yura froze, his veins flooding with ice, and his gut twisted so hard, for a moment, he expected to find his body cleaved in two. Otabek would never have abandoned the bar. Otabek would never have abandoned those _children._

“But where could he have gone?” Yura snapped. “He has no friends, no family.” The silence on the other end made him _wish_ he had been torn in two. “WHERE?!”

“Yura!”

_“No, no. It's … it's alright, Chris,”_ Viktor cut in, his stern voice drifting through the phone. _“If anyone has the right to ask, it's Yura.”_

Chris and Yuri frowned, exchanging mutual confused expressions until Yura screeched, “HE TOLD YOU?!”

_“... I mean … not explicitly, but—”_

“Oh my God!” Yuri looked at Yura as though he just realized their leader was only nineteen years old. Or as though he just realized Yura was _over_ eighteen. He wasn't sure. Either one applied, considering Yuri was one of his self-proclaimed 'parents'. “Did you sleep with him?!”

“CAN WE NOT RIGHT NOW?!”

_“He did.”_

“PHICHIT!”

“Yura!”

“OH MY GOD, YOU'RE NOT MY MOM!”

Chris snorted, laughed, and then coughed and cleared his throat when Yura shot him an icy glare that promised an excruciating death. “Ah, Yura's right. We have to focus. Did you actually go to the bar to check for any kind of foul play?”

_“I mean, I think the only kind of play that's happened there is—”_

“I swear to God, if you finish that sentence, Viktor, I'll fucking castrate you on sight!”

_“Right, so um ...”_ Phichit jumped in again. _“I stopped by earlier. Everything seemed fine. Wherever he is, he took his phone with him, but …”_ The pause had Yura's mind reeling and his heart trying to break through the bone encasing it. _“His weapons were gone, too. As was his uniform.”_

Chris frowned. “You guys didn't have another heist planned, did you?”

_“No. We were going to plan our next move with you guys.”_

“Then why the fuck would ...” The words sizzled and died on Yura's tongue, the remains nearly choking him.

Why would someone as selfless as Otabek Altin take up the mantle of Auric, but instead of turning to the people he trusted, go rogue? The answer was, he wouldn't. Unless he had something to protect. Unless whatever he went to face threatened something of value to him. But the only thing in the world that was of any real value to that man was _people_. And with the children safely resting in Leo's hands, there was only one other person that could motivate Otabek to do something so heroically _stupid._

Yura whirled, grabbed the glass of water off the counter, and tossed it against the wall.

“Yura!”

“I know where he is.” Without looking back, Yura started down the hall to his room. “Suit up. We have a royal appointment to make.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** The finale contains character deaths!
> 
> * * *

Yura slipped into the warehouse first, daggers drawn. It was dark, except for the slivers of moonlight leaking through the grimy windows along the top of the walls, providing just enough illumination to not be entirely blind. They could make out vague outlines of stacked boxes and old, unused machinery, but the details were lost. Their own feet were devoured by the maw of night, and trying to see what awaited them deeper in the warehouse was no easier than peering through thick fog.

One by one, the others stepped in behind him, their soft footsteps the only indication they were following. Yura didn't dare look back, didn't dare give their enemies an easy opportunity to strike. Walking into the lion's den was bold enough. There was no reason to turn them all into the King and Queen's next meal without putting up a good fight.

Silence. Stillness.

Yura grit his teeth. His hair stood on end, his nerves tingled. Every passing second brought with it the anticipation of being struck down, and every tick on the clock in which they remained untouched made Yura's muscles coil even tighter.

“What is this place?” Phichit whispered.

“ _Your cage.”_

The lights flared to life. Eyes searing, Yura hissed and clamped them shut, the echoing cries of the others assaulting his already strained senses. _Fuck!_ Yura squinted against the glare, trying to reorient himself. Metal. Crates. A thick layer of dust blanketing every surface. And—“Auric!” He was on the floor, slumped over, his arms chained to the wall. His weapons were missing, his mask removed. His shirt was torn open, skin stained crimson in more places that Yura wanted to count, and splatters decorated the floor around him.

Yura took two steps before freezing as the King and Queen descended the stairs. The King clapped, slow and purposeful, the mockery ringing in Yura's ears, but he couldn't reconcile it with the man who stood between them and Otabek. And the Queen … Yura's stomach twisted and bile burned his throat.

“What the fuck?!”

“Tsk, tsk, princess. Language.”

“Oh, please. When have you ever known Yuri Plisetsky to be calm and reasonable?”

“You know these people?” Viktor hissed. But Yura's tongue refused to function. His brain wasn't much help, either. The world spun as the fabric of his reality was ruthlessly yanked out from under his feet.

Mila laughed. “Aw, Jean, I think we broke the poor boy.”

“I d-don't ...” Yura's pulse raced, the blood in his veins nothing but icy shards shredding him apart from the inside. “I don't understand!”

“What's not clear, princess? We're the King and Queen.”

“But why?!” Yura choked out. “What did I ever do to you?!” They were classmates. Nothing more, nothing less. Other than a few spilled coffees and spat 'fuck offs', they barely interacted with each other. Were they jealous? Lilia didn't exactly make it a secret he was top of the class, despite never going easy on him, either. Movement caught his eye, and Yura's gaze shifted to the man on the floor, somewhat visible between Jean's legs. “What did _he_ ever do to you?!”

“Hm?” Mila glanced at Otabek, as though she forgot his presence entirely. “Oh, nothing.” She grinned as she turned back to Yura. “He just made things easier for us. _You_ certainly did a number of him, though, Yuri.”

“What?”

“He barged in here all hero-like, ready to throw down his life to ensure an end to your suffering. It was really quite cute. And gross. Jean and Bella are married, and even they aren't _that_ disgusting.”

“Hey!”

Mila waved her hand dismissively but otherwise ignored her partner. “I'm not sure what kind of twink-ass wiles you whipped out, but damn, you must be good to make him risk his own cause just to soothe your delicate sensibilities. Shakespeare could probably write a play about you two.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You made this poor, for all intents and purposes, _innocent_ man catch some feels just because you're a super special snowflake who can't handle the realities of life.”

“Mila, I swear to God—”

“Your grandfather.”

Yura's gut curled into itself, trying to disappear from existence. “How do you know about him?!”

“Because I told them.”

As a third person descended the stairs, Yura's head spun so hard, he stumbled, but warm hands grabbed his shoulders and arms, holding him up. He couldn't distinguish whose hands they were, nor how many because his senses were both on fire and numb simultaneously, a storm of rage and pain and confusion crashing through him.

“N-no.”

“Oh, yes.”

“No!” Yura screamed, ripping himself out of the protective embrace of the others. “I trusted you!”

Lilia stepped in front of Jean and Mila, standing tall and proud. “That was the point.” Her eternal stern expression remained, but her eyes … her cold, jade gaze was filled with a fire that only ever thawed her icy interior whenever Yura time and time again rose about the others. Whenever he nearly broke his heart and soul along with his body, pushing his limits above and beyond everyone around him—

“Oh my God.” He dropped to the floor.

Lilia wasn't building him up. She never had been. She was tearing him down, brick by brick.

And he let her.

“Yura!”

The hands of his friends were back on him as Chris and Yuri's combined cries echoed through the warehouse, but there was nothing they could do. Yura's muscles tensed, he gagged and heaved, the contents of his stomach splashing onto the dirty tiles.

“What the hell?!” Yuri yelled over his shoulder. Yuri never yelled. He never raised his voice. He never _snapped._ But now that he had, Yura no longer wished to bear witness to it because he understood why now of all times would drag forth such a visceral reaction, and it made what remained of his abused, wasted gut scream and claw at the shell of flesh encasing it.

Yuri was one of Yura's guardians. And his 'child' was being threatened.

“Do you not understand yet, Katsuki? Christophe?” Lilia's tone had always been sharp, but it no longer scraped against Yura's senses; it sliced right through them like a hot knife through soft butter. “Of course you wouldn't. You were never meant to.”

“What is going on?” Viktor's support disappeared, his shadow looming over the group still huddled on the floor. “Who the hell are you?!”

Chris's arms tightened around Yura, and despite hating himself for it, he leaned into the embrace. “The King and Queen … Jean and Mila are Yura's classmates. And Lilia is their instructor.”

“But why—”

“My grandfather ...” Yura forced the words out, but every letter, every _breath,_ was tainted. Bitter. Sour poison on his tongue. “This is all because of him.” He raised his head, his gaze first landing on Lilia, then falling to the other two. “But _they_ have nothing to do with this! None of them do!”

There was no guilt or remorse in Lilia's eyes. “I couldn't take you down alone. I'm not as young as I once was. So I employed Mila and Jean to watch you for me. As for the others,” her mouth pinched as she looked at each of them in turn, “they got in the way.”

“So what? You just used us as pawns to further your own agenda?”

“Oh, don't sound so surprised, Christophe. It's no different than how Yuri has treated you this whole time.”

“Don't,” Yura hissed.

“Has he not just used you and Katsuki to do all his dirty work? Has he not thrown your needs to the wind in his selfish act to save his grandfather?”

“Stop it!”

“Yura is nothing like you,” Yuri spat. He squeezed Yura's shoulders. “We _offered_ to help him! Gave our time and effort willingly! Nikolai is a good man!”

The laugh that filled the warehouse seared Yura's nerves. His hair stood on end, and he cringed back, deeper into the safety of Yuri and Chris's arms. Lilia never laughed. She never even smiled. But despite her cold, hard persona, Yura never could have imagined something so vile and blood-curdling falling from her lips.

“A good man? Nikolai Plisetsky? If you believe that, you're more foolish than I gave you credit for.”

“And you're any better?” Viktor snapped. He stepped around the group and stood between Lilia and Yura. “I don't care what you think Yura's grandfather did to you. You've dragged innocent people into your personal war! And for what? Revenge? I don't care about my role in all this, but Auric doesn't deserve this!”

“You're right. He doesn't.” Lilia shrugged. “But that's what happens when good people get mixed up with the wrong sort. None of you would have been on my radar had you not crossed paths with Yuri the first time of your own accord. I didn't expect anyone else to take up those requests—” Phichit gasped, and Lilia's gaze fell to him, her lips twitching. “Finally caught on, did you?”

“You … weren't just _our_ informant,” he whispered. His words were hesitant, thoughtful, as though his mind was a scattered puzzle, and the pieces were slowly being set in place. “You knew. You knew about his grandfather and how desperate Yura would be. No one hacked our files. You didn't need to because _you_ faked the offers! You knew where Yura would be at all times because the buyers were all _you!_ And once we found the 'anonymous requests'—”

“She fed us the information willingly, sought us out and baited us so we'd get in Yura's way,” Viktor finished. His voice dripped with disgust.

“Jean and I were originally hired to ensure his failure. You three were never part of the plan until you blindly inserted yourself.” Mila picked at her nails, as though the conversation bored her. “But it was far more fun to watch the six of you step all over each other instead. Certainly made things easier on us. And kept Yuri in the dark for longer.”

“You gave Auric false hope!”

Lilia's gaze hardened. “I'm not a monster, Valerian. Once I got what I wanted, I planned to invest in The Golden Laurel. I was a wife and mother once. I wouldn't let those children suffer just because Auric was a fly caught in the wrong web.”

“Bullshit!” Yura spat. “If you cared about Auric's cause, then why is he here, bleeding all over the fucking floor?!”

“He gave me no choice. I expected _you_ to come here alone. I worked tirelessly for the last year, whittling you down until you had nothing left to lose to ensure it. I just didn't anticipate Auric's hero complex to be worse than yours, and I couldn't let him ruin everything.”

“And then what?” Chris snapped. “Say Yura had come here alone. What then? If you're out for revenge, why not just go to the hospital and take Nikolai out yourself?” Yura choked on more bile, but it wasn't enough to spew onto the floor. His stomach was empty now, wrung dry. He was drained, defeated, emotionally gutted and left on display like a fur rug.

Lilia's cold, cutting gaze ignored Chris, landing on Yura instead. “Why would I do that?” She reached around her back and pulled out a gun. A gun Yura knew intimately. The metallic tang still lingered on his tongue. The phantom weight of it tingled along his palm. He always believed his end would come from that weapon, but he never imagined it in the grasp of someone so twisted.

A flurry of movement. Weapons were drawn, feet shifted. From one blink to the next, Yura went from staring down the barrel of Otabek's gun to his vision being cut off as Chris, Phichit, and Yuri rose and stepped in front of him, standing with Viktor to complete the human barricade. The absence of their touch left Yura cold, but their fierce protection flooded his sledgehammering heart with warmth.

“I don't think so, bitch.” Chris's arms were raised, as were Viktor's. Yura could picture their guns in-hand, especially that fucking gold-plated one. It was ridiculous, and maybe Yura was losing his sanity, but Viktor defending him with that damn weapon made him smile a little.

“Whoa, wait!” Hurried footsteps. Yura tried to lean around his friends to catch a glimpse, to no avail, so he peered through the forest of black pants in front of him instead, just for another set to step in the way, standing between Lilia and the others. “What are you doing?”

“Out of the way, Jean.”

“This wasn't part of the plan.”

“Of course it was,” Lilia sneered. “You were just too foolish to see it. Now, _move_.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no!”

“Jean!” Mila this time, her voice shaky. “Please just listen to her.”

“Did you know?”

“Of course she didn't. I knew if I told either of you, you wouldn't go through with it. Move!”

“No!”

“Jean!”

“This isn't right, Mila!”

“After everything, you choose now to throw your moral code around?” Lilia hissed.

“I agreed to help you get your revenge on _Nikolai._ I swallowed what we were putting Yuri through because if someone's family did that to Bella, I'd want justice, too! But you can't just kill him! Yuri is innocent!”

Yura's heart raced. He was frozen in place, still sitting on the floor next to the pool of his own sick. Jean was a devout man. He wore a small cross around his neck and prayed before meals. He was always the 'nice guy', smiling and throwing positivity around, raining his damn motivation phrases down on you whether you liked it or not. His choice of shower song was almost always some kind of Christian rock, he volunteered at seniors homes on weekends, and he always corrected vulgar speech. So it wasn't a surprise that the idea of shooting Yura point-blank didn't sit well with him.

But what the hell had Yura's grandfather done to Lilia and her husband to make Jean-Jacques Leroy capable of not just turning a blind eye, but actively participating in any of this to begin with?

“Jean's right.”

“Silence, Mila!”

“But—”

“Move, Jean!

“No!”

_BANG!_

Yura startled. Mila screamed. Things happened too fast for him to follow, until the four men in front of Yura were kneeling, Jean lying in Viktor's arms. Chris's shirt had been peeled off and Phichit was pressing it against the wound, but it did nothing to quell the trembles. Jean's complexion paled as Viktor's dress shirt turned red.

“Nikolai killed my husband and daughter! I will not let anyone get in the way of my revenge!”

“LIAR!” Yura wailed, hot tears streaming down his face. He wasn't sure what was happening anymore. Was this a nightmare or reality? He was on fire and drowning in ice simultaneously. “My grandfather would never kill anyone!”

“Your grandfather is a murderer, and I will ensure he feels the pain I've lived with every day for the last twenty years!”

Lilia retook aim. The bodies around him tensed. Yura flinched, clamping his eyes shut. Someone threw their arms around him. His stomach dropped, and his mouth dried up. This was it. This was when they would all die. But unlike in the movies, when everything seemed to slow when facing death, Yura had no concept of time. It didn't lag or speed up. His senses weren't heightened or muted. His mind didn't race, assaulting him with visions of his childhood. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. No prayer left his lips. It was just nothing and everything at once. No more or less than the reality of it all. The only thing that happened in that single second was … acceptance.

At least he wouldn't die alone.

A shriek.

Yura's eyes flew back open as the gun hit the floor, and Lila stumbled back. Mila stood between them, her arms poised. “How is this any better? Forget the Plisetskys, _Jean_ is innocent!”

Lilia's lips curled as she nursed her wrist. “Nikolai is a monster! I'll do whatever necessary to ensure he pays!”

“By ruining other people's lives in the process?! You're the monster!”

“You don't want to fight me, Mila. You won't win.”

“We'll see about that.”

Yura barely witnessed Lilia block and counter Mila's strikes, far more nimble than her age implied, before Jean's gurgled gasp grabbed his attention. Viktor's shirt was soaked despite Phichit's efforts to stanch the flow, and the trembles coursing through Jean were steadily growing more violent. Chris and Yuri darted to Otabek’s side the second the path was clear, but Yura was frozen there, his heart and mind split in two. He could only be in one place at a time.

He had to make a choice.

“Jean.” Yura shifted closer until his knees were pressed against the man's side. His hands hovered for a moment, his gaze darting from the bloodied fabric pressed to the wound, to Jean's sweat-coated forehead, before dropping back onto his lap. He couldn't bring himself to touch him, and Yura hated himself for it. His stomach weaved and twisted, a fresh wave of tears spilling past his lashes. “I'm so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“N-No,” Jean choked out. “It's n-not.”

“Yes, it is! None of this wouldn't have happened if I'd just—”

“Don't, Yura,” Viktor cut in, shaking his head. “Jean's right. There's nothing you could have done. Lilia would have come after you one way or another.”

A cold hand rested over his own. Yura startled, his gaze lowering, and he almost gagged when he realized it was Jean's. This man had made his life a living hell for months, and now he was _dying._ And yet, his focus wasn't on himself; it was on _Yura._ Despite wanting to, Yura didn't flinch away. He couldn't. Jean was trying to comfort him while his own life drained away.

Yura turned his palm and squeezed his hand. “Fuck off, Jean.”

It was so natural. It just slipped out. Viktor and Phichit stared, but Jean _laughed._ Or at least, he tried to, but it came out as more of a bubbled gasp. “L-language, princess.” Yura choked back a sob. “About … B-Bella—”

“No! Fuck you!”

“Yuri—”

“I said no!” Yura hissed. “You're going to be okay, alright?!” He cupped his other hand around Jean's as his tears thickened. Maybe he was squeezing a little too hard, but he didn't care. And Jean didn't stop him. “You have to be okay! You have to go home to her! You have to go home to your wife!” His gaze shot up, and he glared at Phichit. “Save him!”

“I'm doing everything I can!”

“THEN TRY HARDER!”

“Yura!”

“YURI!”

Mila's scream boomed through the warehouse. Yura's head whipped around. She was on the floor, her leg twisted in a way that shouldn't be possible, and Lilia stood over her, battered but victorious. Otabek's gun was back in her hand as she turned to take aim.

Jean jolted in Viktor's arms. And Yura gasped as a gunshot filled the room.


	8. Chapter 8

A soft, repetitive _beep_ welcomed Otabek as he steadily rose out of the darkened fog. His eyelids were like solid metal walls, and his limbs were weighted, but all other sensation was numb, muted. He could detect a solid surface beneath him, but the connection between whatever he was lying on and his body was as though a thick bubble had clamped around his skin.

All concept of how long he had been unconscious for, when it happened, _why_ it happened, was lost. And despite just coming to, exhaustion still coiled around his mind, like a bear pulled out of hibernation early. His curiosity was hamstrung by his weakened body, and he lay in suspension, just counting the beeps.

Five hundred and forty.

Five hundred and forty-one.

Five hundred and forty-two.

Five hundred and—

Something nearby shifted, and Otabek's focus zeroed in. He wasn't alone. The beeps sped up, matching the rhythm of his increasing heart rate, and that's when it sunk in. But how did he get there? Displaced images and voices floated in his head, but it was all jumbled up as if multiple puzzles had been tossed together, and the boxes had gone missing, leaving him without a clue how to start piecing them together.

“Otabek?”

That voice …

Warm hands cupped his face. The heat seeping into his skin almost burned, but he didn't flinch away. How could he? The last time they saw each other ended in disaster, and after going to the warehouse—

_The warehouse!_

Otabek pried his eyes open. They screamed in protest, fighting to slam closed again to hide from the bright yellow light pouring down from the ceiling, but he refused to let them win. The electricity surging through his nerves was worth it. _Yura_ was worth it. And there he was. A bit pale, dark smudges under his eyes. His hair was a little matted on the right, and his lips were dry. But none of that mattered because Yura was there, at his side, _alive._ And somehow, so was Otabek.

Sparkling emerald met rich brown, and for a heartbeat, they just stared into each other's eyes. Then Yura pulled back, his warmth disappearing. He cleared his throat as he settled in the chair beside Otabek's bed. “Hey.”

“H-hey.” His voice was rough, gravely. Considering the movement of his throat was akin to rubbing sheets of sandpaper together, it was probably unwise to force himself to speak, but there were too many questions invading his mind as the flood of memories washed in. Details were still missing, things were disjointed. But there was one thing he absolutely had to know first and foremost. “Lilia?”

Yura swallowed and lowered his gaze. “Dead.”

Silence.

Otabek was used to living in quietude. He generally only spoke when necessary and often preferred the companionship of a book or instrument over people. It wasn't a slight against society so much as it was the way he protected himself. Like a clam, his hardened exterior sheltered the much softer, more vulnerable interior, and if he let anyone get close, they would eventually see through the mask. Which wasn't inherently bad, but the risk of manipulation wasn't one he took lightly.

Not anymore.

When he was younger, he made the mistake of trusting the wrong people, a story his juvenile record held the secrets of. And was all the more reason why he worked so hard to help the children in his neighborhood, to keep them off the streets and out of the hands of abusers whenever possible. And with the responsibility of their well-being on his shoulders, it was even more imperative he tread carefully around others.

But the silence between him and Yura made Otabek twitchy. His muscles squirmed beneath his skin, begging to be put to use. There were too many unknowns, too many questions. But the venomous tongue lashing he received the last time he prodded for answers still lingered.

“Yura?” Otabek scanned the blond, searching for physical signs of anything that took place in the warehouse, but Yura's entire body was hidden under jeans and a baggy hoodie. Even his feet were covered, despite his shoes lying on the floor beside the chair. He toed at the white, speckled tiles, the pastel pink cats on his socks in stark contrast to the rest of his all-black outfit. “Kitten?”

“Why did you do it?”

“What?”

Yura looked up, his gaze hard and sharp like daggers. “Why the fuck did you go there alone?”

Otabek swallowed, but it was like trying to consume a handful of pebbles. “How long have you waited to ask that?”

“Three days, seven hours, and twenty-six minutes. Now answer the damn question!”

“Yura—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Otabek stared. Was he supposed to have an answer for that, too? Whatever painkillers they put in his IV must have been wearing off because the gentle tingles creeping along his skin were slowly shifting into a sensation of being jabbed by a thousand needles, but he suspected Yura wouldn't let him call the nurses for a new dose until he was satisfied with Otabek's responses. “Yura—”

“And don't you dare pull some sappy shit on me!” Yura hissed, pointing a finger in what Otabek assumed was supposed to be a threatening manner. “If your answer is anything less than something epically badass, I'll beat you back into a coma. I've had to listen to Yuri and Viktor swoon over each other for days. And all Chris and Phichit do is speak with tongues.”

Otabek frowned. “Don't you mean 'in tongues'?”

“No. No, I mean 'with tongues.' With them rammed down each other's throats so deep, they can probably taste one another's asses.”

Well, that painted a rather disturbing picture. Otabek shivered. “I see.”

“Don't. Trust me, you don't want to witness that shit.”

Another moment of silence, but this time, the ice had thawed. Their gazes slid back to each other, and despite the electrified aches zapping his nerves, Otabek's lips twitched. Yura glared, seemingly trying to maintain his angry feline persona, but there were already cracks in the mask. Last week, Otabek wouldn't have known where to look for them. Now, he couldn't miss them.

“I think you already know why.”

Yura shook his head. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Yura.”

“Otabek.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know someone in this world still loves me!”

Otabek's blood turned cold as the monitor betrayed his erratic heartbeat. Tears were already streaming down Yura's face by the time he tore his gaze away, and Otabek's gut churned. Yura was no longer just a predator without prey. The sun had set on his pride, and he was a kitten alone in the dark, struggling to find a new place to call home.

Choking back a hiss from the jolt of pain that shot through him, Otabek leaned closer and reached out, placing his hand over Yura's. “When?”

The blond sniffled. “Last night.”

Otabek didn't really understand the emotions crashing through Yura. He never experienced such a loss, or at least, none he could remember. His parents died when he was a toddler, too young to entirely comprehend their disappearance. And he generally didn't allow anyone close enough to sink into his heart because humans were fleeting. Whether from death or by a choice of their own making, people came and went like the ebb and flow of the ocean waves. But he didn't need to understand. Yura wasn't asking for sympathy or pity. Otabek blinked, and for a moment, they were back at the bar, Yura raging about Yuri and Chris coddling him. Their protection and affection was surely a form of love, too, but that wasn't what Yura sought, either.

He squeezed Yura's hand and waited. There were many things he could say, but Otabek swallowed them all. No words would heal the gashes in Yura's heart. So they sat in near-silence, the soft, steady _beep_ the soundtrack to Yura's grief. His limbs burned, pulsing and flaring to the rhythm, but Otabek grit his teeth and focused on the warm hand beneath his own.

“Why did you do it?” This time, the question was barely more than a whisper.

Otabek's gaze lifted, and he was pinned in place by the shimmering emeralds staring back at him. The tears had dried up, but the damp trails down Yura's cheeks remained. He didn't brush them away. He wasn't hiding from Otabek. But then again, he never had been. Despite their masks and bandannas, their aliases and secrets, Yura's emotions screamed louder than anything that fell from his lips. And Otabek never missed a single note of the wildcat's cries.

And maybe ... it was time to release a call of his own.

Despite opening up to Yura once before, it was filtered by politics and morals. Every word had been considered, calculated. Honest and true, but just brushing the surface of the ore encasing a precious stone deep within. But now, Yura was split open, vulnerable, pleading to not be the only one exposed to the whims of life. And although Otabek couldn't stitch Yura back together, he could crack himself open and use the shattered pieces as armor for them both while time took its course.

He drew in a breath and readied his pickaxe. “Because … I couldn't stomach the idea of you going alone instead.”

“Who said I would?”

“Come on, Yura. Don't kid yourself.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You never back down from a challenge. Your ego wouldn't let you.”

“Fuck you!” Yura glared and tried to rip his hand away, but Otabek's grip tightened.

“Do you want my answer or not?!”

Yura froze, his eyes wide, his lips parted. They stared at each other, neither of their gazes wavering, despite the stuttered, rapid beats pouring out of the monitor, betraying Otabek before he could even get another word out. He let Yura rage and spit and storm out on him once; he wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Ice cold uncertainty battled with heated frustration, but he dragged himself through the storm. “You have the heart of a lion … and the eyes of a soldier.” Otabek's voice trembled. Every word was another strike against his shell, steadily cracking him open. Yura's throat bobbed, but he stopped trying to pull away. “You love fiercely and fight passionately. You burn so hot, you could engulf the world if you wanted to, but instead, you use those flames to protect the things that matter most. But that's the problem. You hold them too close. You overheat. You burn out.

“When you left the other night, there was no light in your eyes, and _I_ was the one responsible for snuffing it out. And once we got that message ...” Otabek let out a shaky breath. “I knew you would do it. That you would go alone. Because your will was nothing more than a flickering ember, and it was all my fault.”

“Otabek—”

“So I threw myself to the wolves, hoping they wouldn't trample the spark that remained. Hoping to buy you enough time to find it and reignite it.”

“They could have killed you. They almost did!”

“I don't care! Damn it, Yura! Don't you get it?” Hot, thick tears spilled past Otabek's lashes as everything he held deep in the cave of his soul oozed forth. The shell had shattered, and he lay there, open and raw among the shards. “You melted me down and crafted me into something new. You left your mark on me, and I hoped I might have done the same in return. I hoped if I went before the King and Queen myself, you'd recognize you aren't alone, that there was someone there to help you carry your torch. It was stupid, I know, but the moment you walked out on me, I realized why you fought so hard to save your grandfather. And for once in my life, I wanted to be selfish, too. For once in my life, I wanted to hold on to something! Or at very least, help you hold on to yourself!”

Yura's lip trembled, his own eyes damp and shimmering. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. The echo of Otabek's racing heart filled the room, but this time, he didn't count the beats. Time didn't matter. They just existed, gazing into each other's eyes. 

The ache in Otabek's limbs paled in comparison to the relief that flooded him when Yura finally stirred.

He slowly rose and climbed onto the bed, mindful of the many cords and tubes. And after a moment of gentle shuffling, Yura settled against Otabek's side, their fingers linked together.

* * *

“Where is she?” Yura demanded the moment he strode through the bar doors. He barely scanned the room before he was already darting between the tables, heading straight for Viktor.

“Welcome ba—Hey!”

“You had her while we were gone! It's my turn now!” Viktor sighed and Yuri chuckled, but Yura ignored them in favor of smiling at the baby now propped on his left hip. Until she reached up and yanked on his hair. “Ow! Beka! JJ is being mean to me again!”

“She's a toddler, Yura. What do you expect?”

“Nah, blame Jean.”

“Chris!”

“I'm just saying, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Yura!” Phichit hissed, his hands coming down over Jacqueline's ears. “Don't curse in front of her! She's already mimicking, and the last thing we need is for Bella to regret letting us babysit.”

“If she doesn't already regret it, that is.”

“Shut up, Mila!”

Two years passed since the horrors of the warehouse, and though some of the emotional scars remained, everything else had changed. Yuri, Viktor, Phichit, and Chris now shared the apartment, and the money that used to go toward four separate rent payments had instead been funneled into The Golden Laurel. It wasn't an instant fix, and the bar just narrowly dodged bankruptcy, but after months of dedication and careful management of resources, the books slowly started to balance out. And their customer base was steadily rising, too. Mila volunteered to work the bar, and used her social influence around campus to draw in more people, which freed Otabek up to focus more on helping the neighborhood.

The first hard-earned renovation fund was invested in the rundown community center two blocks away, which became the new 'home away from home' for the children and was overseen by Phichit and Leo. And though Otabek missed having the children pile into the bar every afternoon, it allowed him to alter The Golden Laurel's hours to match the other bars in the city.

Their next goal was to renovate the bar itself, but for now, they worked with what they had. And between Mila and Yura's eyes for fashion and decor, they managed to make some cost-effective changes that helped 'spruce up' the place in the meantime, such as well placed tapestries and curtains.

“Speaking of Bella,” Yuri leaned around the group and frowned at the door, “where is she?”

“She decided to stay for a while longer.”

A collective batch of nods and forlorn sighs.

“And what about you two?” Viktor prodded. “Did you visit the others, too?”

Yura gently bounced Jacqueline, his gaze locked on her bright, innocent smile. “Yeah.” His stomach curled, but for once, it wasn't Viktor's fault.

After escaping the warehouse, Yura returned to Nikolai's bedside to learn the truth once and for all. Yakov Feltsman, and his and Lilia's daughter, had indeed died in a car crash. And Yura's grandfather was the driver. Their daughter hadn't been much older than Jacqueline was now, and while most days, Yura could look at her sweet, beaming face without much issue, _this day_ was always a battle.

For all of them.

Yura swallowed, forcing the wild beast trying to claw up his throat back into its cage. He'd cried enough for one day, first at Nikolai's gravestone, then Jean's, followed by Yakov and Irina's. Last year, Yura couldn't even look at Lilia's grave, but this time, he spared a single flower in her name because deep down, he knew.

He could have been just like her.

“Well, let's get the cake out while we wait for her to get back.” Otabek started for the kitchen but was practically shoved out of the way as Phichit raced past him.

“I'LL GET IT!”

Yura rolled his eyes, but he couldn't resist smiling. Some days were better than others, and some were worse. Those days, Yura stayed huddled up in bed, swaddled in a fort of soft blankets that never seemed to combat the chill flooding his veins. Sometimes, he still bolted upright in the middle of the night, trembling and covered in a cold sweat, haunted by the phantom warmth of crimson pooling over his hands. But despite it all, smiling freely slowly became more natural one day at a time, especially with Otabek at his side, soothing him through every night terror and holding him through every choked breath.

Jacqueline tugged on his hair again. “Ow, stop that, you little demon.”

Chris snorted. “You're one to talk.”

“Asshole.”

“Yura, language,” Viktor snipped. Only for Yura to smirk at him and, behind the baby's back, flip him off. “Yura!”

“What? She didn't hear a thing.”

“You're a terrible role-model.”

“Just wait till she's old enough for us to teach her all about how her daddy killed the big bad witch.”

“Mila!”

“Cake is here!” Phichit wheeled it out on a cart, already decked out in candles.

As they gathered around, Isabella stepped through the door. For a heartbeat, her grief was still stamped across her face, but she lit up as she joined the circle and pulled Jacqueline into her embrace. Her eyes were still damp, but they pretended not to notice as they took turns lighting the wicks. Nine candles in total; one for each of them, including Jean's spitting image. Isabella lit both hers and Jacqueline's.

For a moment, they stood in reverent silence, soaking in the flames' warm glow. Then Yura drew a shaky breath and proclaimed, “For Jean-Jacques Leory.” A honorific cry, echoed by all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming along on this wild, emotional journey with me and Venom! Your support has been absolutely amazing! If you enjoyed this, please consider subscribing to me. I have more Otayuri stories planned in the near future, and I would love to have you all along for the ride! 💕

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for so much for reading! Please go check out Venom's work as well! She writes _amazing_ Otayuri stories (and is also a fantastic artist!), and deserves all the love in the world! You can find her here on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venom_for_free), as well as on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/venom-for-free), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/venom_for_free/), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/venom_for_free).
> 
> And if you want ask me any questions, chat about the newest stories/chapters, or even just want to have a place to connect with other people in the Yuri!!! On Ice fandom, you are more than welcome to join me on [Discord](https://discord.gg/mFvK4hW)! You can also reach me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/TaedaeNextrea) and [tumblr](https://taedae-nextrea.tumblr.com/).


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